On and On the Rabbit Hole Twists
by LaylaPendragon
Summary: The continuing escapades of Layla in the world of 221B. Sequel to The Funny Thing About Happenstance. Sherlock/OC; Spoilers for Season 2. M for adult themes and language.
1. White Rabbit

**A/N: Hello again everyone. I couldn't let Layla sit on a shelf and gather dust, so here she is in all her pugnacious glory living life with a cooped-up Sherlock. I've abandoned the diary style narration for more in depth, multi-character development. We'll see if that actually happens. Happy waiting 'til 2013.**

**Disclaimer: I own only Layla, Henry and Alex.**

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"Being with you, Sherlock, it makes me feel like I'm on drugs sometimes."

"Stop referring to me by that name, we are meant to be undercover." Sherlock snapped quietly but otherwise remained calm and emotionless.

"No, _Dom_, we are not _undercover_. I'm grocery shopping with a Halloween costume on and you're stalking creepily up the aisles alongside me like an over-enthusiastic guard dog." Layla pushed the grocery cart a couple feet forward and turned to inspect the selection of pickled vegetables. Sherlock advanced in step with her, keeping an unusually small distance between the two of them, nearly standing on top of her as he peered up and down the adjacent walk space.

"It is _not_ a 'Halloween' costume. It is a highly specialized form of prosthetic application and it is incredibly expensive, so stop fiddling with it." Layla quickly withdrew her hand and guiltily left the itchy glue beneath her eye alone.

"_And_ I'm not stalking; I'm walking deliberately with an attentive eye to our surroundings. You should try doing so sometime; it would save your furniture several years' worth of wear and tear, and my toes."

"Blah, blah. I'm clumsy and stupid. Yadda, yadda. That's a tired tune _Dom_. If you're looking to insult me, you'll have to try harder than that. Besides, what's got your panties in a bunch?"

Layla selected a jar of pickled okra and steered her cart out of the aisle and down the next, Sherlock walking in perfect step beside her.

"My underwear is lying just as it should, thank you. Now, pay attention." He nodded towards the entrance of the grocer's and continued to stare in that direction in silence. Layla followed his gaze but promptly returned to shopping.

"Do you think we should try almond milk this trip?" She pondered aloud and held a carton under Sherlock's nose. Sherlock rounded on her and, removing it from in front of his face, set the carton forcefully on the nearest shelf.

"Layla! Have you not been paying any attention? We're here looking for my brother." His whisper, though subdued, was still harsh and acerbic. A passing woman glanced uncomfortably at what looked to be a couple having a row in public and hustled past them.

"Yeah, he's right here on my shopping list, beside the icing. His birthday, as you know, is next week and my department has been entrusted with the cake—"

"As if he needs it." Sherlock snorted and craned his neck to peer over a crowd of patrons blocking his view of the front door.

"Hmm. Well, he looks like he's been losing weight lately." Layla muttered distractedly as she perused the shelves piled with jarred sauces.

"Only because he had gained it before." Sherlock's voice dripped with derision.

"Fair enough. Now did you prefer the tomato sauce with or without olives? I can't remember." She held a jar of each in her two hands and lifted them as though weighing each for its favorability.

"Layla, honestly." Sherlock's whisper was more of a growl, and certainly threatening.

"Fine! No olives." Layla shook her head and set the prevailing jar in the cart with a frown, she had wanted the olives.

Sherlock caught sight of Mycroft's assistant and inched closer to Layla, dipping his shoulders towards her and talking quickly into her ear.

"Look, Anthea is here, surely Mycroft will be in soon, he does love his confections."

Layla ignored his intensity and continued strolling down the pasta lane.

"What do you think about lasagna tonight?" She mused in full speaking voice and reached for a box of dried noodles. Sherlock breathed out sharply through his nose, clearly exasperated, and stepped around her to stand at the entrance of the aisle whispering irately back at her.

"Does your inanity know no bounds, Layla? Mycroft is standing no more than ten meters from us and you're quibbling over food!"

"No, _Dom_, I'm simply playing 'Maria.' She seemed fairly Italian, so I'm succumbing to stereotyping and looking at Italian food, for the most part. We are supposed to look like we're picking up the shopping and, since you never let me come here and it's so nice, I thought I'd buy some stuff. Not only that but I'm a bit discombobulated and the shopping helps. Being three different people in a single day is a trifle surreal, at least choosing something as inane as food can help me feel grounded."

"Shhh. He's at the bakery counter." Sherlock strolled casually to the next aisle, nearer to the pastries and continued to discreetly watch his elder brother.

"Why is it again that your brother's shopping is suddenly so interesting?" Layla, happy with her choice of lasagna noodle, pulled up next to Sherlock and began to scrutinize a pile of fresh bread loaves.

"Observe."

Layla did as she was told and carefully followed Mycroft's movements from the corner of her eye, all the while looking like she was very conscious of the quality of freshly baked bread.

As the two of them watched, Mycroft Holmes approached the clear baker's case, his assistant, Anthea, busily typing away on her Blackberry. He gazed carefully down at the collected desserts and pointed one out, the clerk wrapping it in wax paper before handing it over, and returning to the cash terminal ostensibly to print out a receipt.

"Stop staring."

Layla had lifted her head from the sourdough and French loaves as the attendant stepped away from the counter and Mycroft set a gloved hand on the counter.

"I'm hardly staring. Regardless, we don't need to be concerned; even as perceptive as your brother is he will assuredly not recognize us. You look to be at least fifty pounds heavier than you are, have orange hair and pock-marked cheeks and I look like an import from New Jersey. I can't believe you made me purchase this clothing. Who knew a woman could be this interested in fishnet themed pieces? Did this Maria own anything that wasn't partially see-through?"

"No, now hush."

Rene rolled her eyes but fell silent again, the clerk was handing Mycroft the hand-written receipt.

"Strange, that." Layla pointed out uselessly and was rebuked by Sherlock's sneer of revulsion.

"Excellent insight."

Just then Mycroft turned from the counter and glanced in their direction. Sherlock grabbed Layla's face gruffly and planted a quick, sloppy kiss on her lips which effectively stifled her scathing response. When the elder Holmes had wandered back out of sight Sherlock swiftly approached the abandoned counter and secreted away the sheet of paper his brother had left for the clerk.

"What is it?" Layla yawned as Sherlock closely inspected the slip of paper. He nodded a few moments later and handed the paper over to her.

"What do you think?"

She bit her silicone covered lip and allowed her eyes to rove over the page barely marred by ink. _Brent Castle 25-04 30-04 03-05 xxXX xxXX…_

"Well, since I don't know of a castle named Brent, I'm going to assume that is a person. The numbers are probably dates but the exes, I'm not sure what to make of those." She gave the paper back to Sherlock and scratched under her eye again, the prosthetic glue was really bothering her skin at this point.

"Mm. Yes, Brent Castle is undoubtedly a person and you are correct, these must be dates," Sherlock pointed at the numbers, "the exes are also dates but those to be recorded. Mycroft left with a sheet of paper, a hand written receipt unquestionably including some information given by the observant pastry clerk. He and my brother are exchanging dates and other undisclosed facts about someone, this Brent Castle, who must be of the utmost importance if Mycroft is spying on his movements."

Layla nodded but hardly paid Sherlock any mind, he was always getting excited over the minutia of Mycroft's regime and only about five percent of the time was it worth his while. For all she knew, Mycroft was collecting information about a paramour or potential employee despite Sherlock's insistence that it was something to do with Moriarty's surviving circle of clientele and confidants.

"Looks like your brother has taken a page out of your 'Homeless Network' book." Layla scratched harder under her eye and managed to peel back the edge of the covering. Sherlock slapped her hand away and carefully pressed the plastic, spongy film back onto her face.

"What did I say about fiddling? Now take the shopping back without me. You're job here is done; I have some investigation to do that requires finesse. "

Ignoring the snide jab, Layla proceeded to the check-out stations and left Sherlock to his graceful, quiet stalking.

She barely made it out of the grocer's before she systematically ripped the layer of prosthetic make up off her face, leaving a layer of sticky glue residue. Layla stuffed the mask into her purse and then moved on to the glue. She tried to rub as much of it off as she could before coming to the bus stop but apparently failed at doing so.

"You have something on your face, sweet." Layla was confronted by an elderly woman who wetted her hanky and began dabbing at her face. Layla smiled awkwardly and thanked the woman for her attentions before thoroughly wiping her face with the edge of her absurdly revealing shirt.

Back at 221, Layla furtively raced inside and locked her door, unloading all her refrigerated foodstuffs and scampering around her apartment. She was just stuffing the prosthetic kit into the bathroom drawer when her buzzer rang.

"Shit." Layla was still wearing her 'Maria' outfit but didn't have time to change it since the buzzer screamed at her a second time, longer than before. Someone knew she was at home and wanted her to answer.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" She threw a dressing gown over her ridiculous clothing and hustled to the front door.

"What is on your face?" Henry stood holding his briefcase over his head to ward off the sudden rain shower and squinted up at Layla.

"Oh, um… It's a facial treatment. For exfoliation." Layla fished for a suitable explanation and winced at her horrible excuse, luckily Henry wasn't the most fabulous of men.

"That's strange, I hope it works for you because, to be honest, it looks like your face is covered with snot."

Layla touched her face gingerly, only to cringe at the sticky gunk still clinging to it. _So much for that old lady and her matronly ministrations._

"Yeah, uh, it's about time for me to wash it off. That's… yeah." Layla waved Henry inside and scurried into her bathroom. Four alcohol swabs and a thorough scrub later, she emerged pink faced and glowing, but had forgotten to put her bathrobe back on.

"What on earth are you wearing?" Henry stared at her horrified. Layla gaped down at her exposed New Jersey trash costume, astonished at her complete inability to operate that day.

"This is just some dumb outfit I wore out today for a bet. I lost, obviously." She reached back into the bathroom and grabbed the missing dressing gown, internally scolding it for its lack of animate-ness, it should have, after all, realized it was needed and averted this whole situation.

"Well, your face certainly looks exfoliated, so I'd have to admit that you made at least one good choice today." Henry grinned serenely up at Layla from her desk chair and the motioned towards her bed, inviting her to sit down in her own apartment. She rolled her eyes but did as directed, making a mental note that she would throttle the next self assuming man who presumed to give her orders about how to conduct her life.

"Listen Layla, I have something important to talk with you about, do you have a few minutes?" Layla glared suspiciously at her friend of fifteen years. The last time he had had something of importance to discuss with her he had revealed that the preceding month or so of her life had been a contrivance of his and Mycroft's in an attempt to manipulate Sherlock. She was not keen to receive similar such news again.

"What is it, Henry? If you're here to tell me that you invented Great Britain, or something, so that I would become the personal plaything of another Holmes I'm going to smash your face in." She clenched her jaw and leaned forward on the bed menacingly.

"Ha, ha." Henry laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. "No, not exactly, but something like that."

His eyes grew wide and he threw his hands out in front of him as Layla lunged off the bed in his direction.

"NO NO NO, not like that, but it's to do with what I did to you before." Layla sat back on the bed and crossed her arms. "I really wanted to apologize for involving you with all that, Layla. It wasn't fair, and you ended up getting hurt, and I've just felt completely rubbish about it for months now."

"Well, you should." Layla nodded but her anger had subsided some. Henry had no idea that Layla was recovered from that trauma, besides having lost the child, because she still had the very man Henry was apologizing for introducing her to. But he didn't need to know that, in fact, he couldn't.

"Next time, Hen, why don't tell me when you're using me to manipulate the emotions of a grown man. That way, I won't get personally invested and I can just destroy him from afar."

Henry chuckled and clapped his hands on his knees, "You siren, you. I'll be sure to do that from now on—not that I'm planning on using you ever again." He stood from her desk chair and stepped hesitantly towards the door, clearly thinking about something.

"What else, Henry?"

"Oh." He looked up from the floor, chewing his lip. "I—I heard about the baby. I'm really sorry about that as well, I know that must've been difficult for you and I could've have been more supportive."

Layla's shoulders sank, she could put on a fake brave face about Sherlock, but she didn't need to act in order to seem sad about losing her son.

"Thanks, Henry. It was rough. I appreciate the sentiment."

Henry took her cue that she didn't want to speak anymore about it and inched closer to the door.

"Well, I'll be off then. Let me know if you need anything, will you?" Layla nodded and smiled sadly then her old colleague was quickly out the door. A habit of his, it seemed, but well timed because it was less than fifteen minutes later when Sherlock came trudging heavily through the door.

"Good gracious, Sherlock! What happened to you? Your Sherlock-ness is showing!" Layla looked up from laying lasagna noodles to find the half-disguised detective panting in the doorway. He looked down at himself at Layla's remark and hissed in dismay.

"Blast. I thought I'd strapped the body padding on well enough to withstand just about anything. I suppose I should've calculated in the probability of a physical encounter." He reached down and stripped off his shirt and began unfastening the straps which held the fancy pillow-gut.

"Here, let me help. Woah—" Layla had rushed over to remove some of the straps running behind his back but was taken aback by the stench coming off of him and the large, livid bruises newly blooming across his ribs and arms. "—are you okay? Do I need to find you some medical help? Do you think you might have internal bleeding? How did— how is your—" She was nervous to ask him what happened and even more so to see what such an activity had done to his face beneath the silicone mask. Sherlock winced at her first contact, the tightest strap over one of the bluest contusions, but relaxed into her touch.

"There is no need for you to fret like a nagging old woman, Layla. It isn't becoming, I'm fine, just some surface contusions and abrasions. Nothing unusual for a fist fight." He left Layla to finish un-strapping his fake gut and applied his attention to carefully removing his prosthetics.

"A fist fight Sherlock? Was that wise?"

"Not even remotely, but it _was _highly effective."

Layla furrowed her brow as she released the final binding and inspected the rainbow of circular bruises decorating his left rib cage.

"If this is the result of something being highly effective, I would hate to see you after a similar failure."

"I wasn't referring explicitly to the physical altercation, however I was also successful in that endeavor. Not _highly _successful, but successful enough."

"Hmm, if you say so, but what about the, uh, unpleasant odor?" Layla picked up the padding and stooped to collect his shirt taking the gathered items over to her wash machine.

"Bar fight, particularly noisome things tend to be flung about in those. Alcohol, food rubbish, and, I think by the smell of it, a tobacco spit cup." He wrinkled his nose, his freshly uncovered nose, at his left arm and after sniffing pulled away from it.

Layla fought the urge to gag and dropped the shirt and cotton filled cloth into the wash tub, filled it with water and soap and shut the lid, hoping the fragrance of the detergent would be enough to combat the disgusting smells.

"Need I ask why you were in a bar fight? Not really your style, that." Layla washed her hands and brought a cool, damp cloth over to Sherlock. She began blotting off the dried splashes of mystery liquids and the caked on dirt and sweat.

"Mm. You can adequately hide a planned attack on an individual when feigning drunken aggression. It was a perfect opportunity to apprehend Brent Castle."

Layla jerked up from cleaning off Sherlock's shoulder and looked at his face. He had his smug little grin on as he cut his eyes down in her direction.

"Wait, you already caught him? Who is he?" Layla continued absently dabbing as she listened intently to Sherlock's account of the afternoon's events.

"I followed Mycroft to a second market, one that was not his own, obviously and watched a similar interchange to the one we both witnessed. Upon retrieving a second slip of paper containing the same name and dates, I realized that Castle must have something to do with grocer shipments, particularly foodstuffs to do with baking. From my previous observations I assumed that the particular cell I had been tracking—"

"Wait you've been tracking a crime syndicate? Sherlock Holmes, I thought we'd agreed that you were going to lie low!"

"I decided that this particular agreement of ours was flexible; I found upon further investigation that there were still active agents, previously dependent upon Moriarty, loitering in London. This cell had settled here dealing in small time drugs. Lestrade caught a selection of them smuggling heroin into the city via cat litter. Innovative but ultimately ineffective."

Sherlock shrugged away from Layla's dabbing as she moved up towards his neck. She frowned and went to the sink to retrieve a fresh cloth to start work on his face. Not only was it covered with the prosthetic glue, but it was marred by sweat and dirt and what Layla hoped was not his own blood. Sherlock ignored her look of concern and continued his story.

"In this instance, I believed that they were employing sugar: replacing certain bags with whatever drug in the manufacturing circuit and then retrieving the delivered goods from grocery store rooms. I was partially correct; they were shipping in cocaine under the label of confectioner's sugar. So, I walked to the most central distribution center between the two shops and found Castle on his way out."

"How did you know it was him?" Layla had hauled a chair over to stand more eye to eye with Sherlock as she carefully cleaned off his face. He raised an eyebrow condescendingly and smirked.

"I observed." Layla rolled her eyes and pressed a little harder than necessary to scrub of a smudge of mystery filth. Sherlock winced and his ice blue eyes grew threateningly frosty. Layla met his gaze defiantly and then moved on to the source of the blood, a cut along his right brow bone.

"He was wearing a name badge." Layla tittered at the mundane-ness of some of Sherlock's methods; sure he often had the big, impressive deductions involving ridiculously meticulous leaps of reason but sometimes it really did boil down to him being a very observant individual.

"Hold still, this is still bleeding and it's perfectly filthy. I need to get some alcohol." Layla hopped off her perch as Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation but allowed her to tend to his wound.

"Continuing, I followed Castle away from the warehouse and to a local pub. The rest is fairly obvious. I knew that Mycroft was after him and indeed a selection of shady figures had been following him several yards in front of me. I decided from that to play intoxicated, start a fight with him and then leave him incapacitated for Mycroft's agents to collect."

"An' is dat 'ow it 'append?" Layla held the antibacterial ointment container in her mouth as she gently applied the ointment itself to the cut with one hand and grasped the liquid skin in her other.

"Not exactly." Sherlock admitted reluctantly with a grumble. "It turns out that, even with several ales in him, Brent Castle is an excellent bare knuckle boxer. It took me a good twenty minutes to knock him out and even then I was forced to use a tankard. The man was surprisingly resilient to even my best placed uppercuts." Sherlock shook his head with irritation and Layla swallowed a smile.

"There, you're all sealed up. Now you simply must shower, you smell indescribably terrible." She shooed him into the bathroom and then washed her hands thoroughly so that she could return to her lasagna.

Nearly ten minutes later, the lasagna was prepared and waiting for the oven to come to heat and Sherlock was just coming out of the bathroom. He was completely nude, save for the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and looked like a Jackson Polluck painting. Layla restrained her first impulse, to rush over and fawn over his injuries, and instead held her peace beside the kitchen sink rinsing salad veggies. She did however watch him carefully out of the corner of her eye. Despite being beaten nearly to a pulp, he looked physically more sound than he had in quite a while.

After faking his death and living haphazardly for several months he had lost even more weight and his general health had deteriorated to such a point that when Layla had happened upon him Sherlock had looked positively skeletal. Since then, with Layla's cooking and gentle coaxing, Sherlock had put back on ten pounds of healthy weight, easily. His face no longer seemed wan and collapsed, he still looked strangely ethereal with his stunning eyes, fair skin and prominent bone structure, but he no longer resembled a Holocaust survivor. More than that, a good proportion of the weight had been distributed as additional muscle tone. Without cases to occupy his overactive mind and being forced to spend a large amount of time cooped up inside, Sherlock had resorted to boxing, an activity he had pursued casually before but one to which now he was staunchly dedicated. Layla was glad for it, his mental state was soothed by the exertion and the physical ramifications made her stomach clench.

Just such a feeling surged over her as she watched Sherlock pad over to her wardrobe and pull out the false back to retrieve his clothing. A quick toweling off of his back and now auburn hair left his bottom bare for her appreciation. And did she appreciate it, it too had been positively affected by the increased exercise and he had had a fine bottom to begin with. Layla bit her lip over-hard as she gazed at Sherlock getting dressed and completely forgot about the lettuce she had meant to be rinsing.

"Don't bruise the arugula, it ruins the flavor."

Sherlock piped up as he pulled a slouchy cotton shirt over his head carefully, it was one of the few pieced of clothing Layla had been able to save from the shrine John had made out of Sherlock's room. The poor doctor had simply refused to get rid of any of Sherlock's things, besides that obsessive impulse, he had been recovering. Even beginning to have Mary stay over at 221 instead of only bunking up with her across town when they spent their nights together.

"Lasagna, eh? Smells as though you've finally found the right proportion of garlic." Sherlock plucked a washed leaf from Layla's grasp and chewed it contemplatively. "Maybe you _should_ go to Mycroft's part of town for the shopping. This is exceptional arugula."

"I'm glad you like it, now stop picking or we won't have any left for the salad." She swatted his hand away.

"I'm hungry." He reached back and successfully grabbed another handful of leaves. Layla pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at his petulant assertion.

"I know that eating regularly is new for you, and I'm glad that you've taken it up, but you simply must learn meal preparation decorum. If you want to eat a civilized dinner you can't eat the individual components before they're combined. There's boiled eggs in the fridge or some almonds in the cupboard if you just can't wait for the lasagna." She sharply rapped his knuckles with a spatula as he reached to pick the top layer of cheese off her immaculate lasagna. He glowered down and her and retrieved the almonds from the pantry before perching, folded in on himself, on her desk chair.

"I thought you were worried about my bruises." He sucked on his knuckles and glared acidically towards the kitchen.

"What's one more?" Layla shrugged and bent over to slide the lasagna into the oven, "I'm not going to let you ruin the perfection of my noodle laying and covering. You're a big boy, it couldn't have hurt that badly." She grinned unctuously over at the brooding detective and finished laying the salad components out to dry.

"I need you to cut my hair again tonight." He munched eagerly at the almonds while rifling through the newspapers he'd brought back with him that evening.

"Aw, but your curls were just coming back." Layla left the kitchen to evaluate the length of Sherlock's hair. She ran her fingers through the artificially deep copper locks and sighed. She would sorely miss the lusciousness of his hair, again. Twirling a distinctively pronounced ringlet around her forefinger she sighed once more, this time in assent.

"Fine, I'll cut it again, but I must warn you the change will also affect the sex. You know where I like to hold on." She coyly trailed a ghosting pinky over his jaw line and sauntered back into the kitchen making sure to swing her hips suggestively.

"You know you can't seduce me into changing my mind. My hair with curls is too distinctive, even when dyed a different color. This way I need not wear the prosthetics all the time."

He was right, of course. When his hair was significantly different Sherlock was free to roam the city on occasional errands and investigative stalking without attracting attention to himself. It was especially necessary if he was going to maintain the recent boxing hobby that Layla so appreciated (and benefited from.)

"Fine." She stopped moving lasciviously and marched stiffly into the kitchen to compile the salad and pack it into the fridge to chill. "That just means that you'll be more black and blue tomorrow than you are currently. I have to find purchase somewhere."

Sherlock widened his eyes and blinked rapidly as he turned to evaluate Layla angrily abusing the arugula, this time with a paper towel.

"You're bruising the lettuce again."

"I'll bruise you, and not in a sexy way, if you don't shut it."

Sherlock chuckled wickedly but held his peace for the rest of the evening, even when Layla did end up bruising him later, adding purple crescent indentations on his bum to the collection of fist marks on his sides.


	2. Layla

Layla started the next morning as she had done for the past few weeks: angrily punching off her blaring alarm, rolling over to awaken Sherlock, who slept soundly beside her with his arm folded close around Rene, and then struggling to urge her body to move at such an early hour.

This morning the second and third steps were particularly difficult. First of all, Sherlock was more than soundly asleep that morning. It seemed that the busy day of stalking and beating the snot out of another human being had really worn him out. She tenderly ran her fingers through what little hair the shearing he had demanded had left behind and twisted out of his close embrace.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. I'm getting up now, come on wake up."

Layla had found that normal things like alarms and ringing doorbells no longer woke Sherlock, something to do with the trauma his fake death had caused she figured. The result was bittersweet; Sherlock now _slept_ like a normal human does but not in the manner of a normal human. If she left him asleep, as she found out early on, he could potentially sleep until past midday and even later. Once, Layla had even found him still resting soundly when she returned home from work in the late evening. After that incident, they had both agreed that Layla needed to awaken Sherlock in the morning when she started her routine. Too bad that this wasn't always easy.

Layla rustled his hair with a bit more force and moved her other hand to his shoulder, rubbing the length of his bare upper arm. She flinched when the covers fell away from his body. The activities of the previous day had left their marks and those marks had darkened while he had slept. In fact, the majority of his chest was now an ugly shade of purple. Layla returned to her rousing coaxing and tried to ignore how the cuts on his face had also puckered and darkened.

"Sherlock, seriously. Wake up. Ah, there we go!" Finally her combination of scalp and arm attentions had succeeded in pulling Sherlock from his deep sleep. A silver-blue eye fluttered open and focused on the face mere inches from his nose.

"You need to shower this morning."

"Oh, and a good morning to you as well. Now sit up so I can survey your hair cut again before I get ready." Sherlock slowly eased himself into a sitting position and leaned further forward. He tried to disguise his winces of pain but Layla noticed each.

"You really did a number on yourself yesterday."

"Mmm. Will it suffice?" Layla held the short strands between her fingers in several places checking approximate length.

"Uh, basically. There just this one spot…" she stumbled heavily from the bed to retrieve her trimming scissors, "here. There. Now it is good enough." She snipped off the offending quarter centimeter and caught the hairs in her hand.

"Thank you." Despite the soreness that burdened his frame, Sherlock nimbly slid from the bed and slunk over to Layla's computer. "Like I said, you need to shower, please do so, so that I may as well." He waved towards the bathroom door without looking away from her computer screen. Layla took a deep breath and stood from the bed. Some mornings were just more difficult, and this one was going to be of that sort plus some, Sherlock wasn't always this surly.

"Aren't we just a ray of fucking sunshine this morning?" She grumbled under her breath on the way to the shower. She collected her undergarments for the day and then checked the clock; she was running late on top of everything else. "Okay, Sherlock, if you're going to be so unpleasant could you at least get the tea fixed and some toast on, while I'm cleaning up? You're the reason I'm going to be late anyways, and on your brother's birthday."

"Fine." Sherlock curled his lip and nodded curtly, still not looking Layla in the eye.

"Oh, is it because it's big brudder's birfday dat widdle Sherwock is pouty?" Layla leant on the door frame of the bathroom and gazed mockingly over at the grumpy man usurping her computer. He showed little reaction to her teasing on his face as he responded.

"As though I would allow so puerile an emotion to affect my actions." His eyes fluttered with disdainful dismissal as he glanced stormily up at Layla.

"You bloody well would you big baby! Now get over it, it's not like this actually affects you at all. You're dead to everyone else, remember? Mycroft can't technically steal attention from you that you didn't have to begin with. Now, make yourself useful." Layla pointed to the kitchen and then turned into the bathroom before Sherlock's furious stare could set her aflame.

Sure enough, when Layla came out from her shower, tea and toast was ready and waiting on the table. Sherlock had already eaten and was in the process of removing Mycroft's cake from the refrigerator when Layla frogged him in the side.

"Just what do you think you're doing? Oh my, what a petulant child you are this morning!" Layla swiped the cake from his grasp and shooed him from the kitchen. Sherlock turned his nose up to her and sourly stormed away to the bathroom, slamming the door soundly behind him.

"What did I do to deserve this?" Layla rubbed her face and checked the time again. Already 7, it was like the immaturity of Sherlock was eating away her time. After checking the cake, no harm done yet, Layla placed it in a transport container and sat down to breakfast. It was cold, Sherlock must have made it immediately and then left it to chill to spite Layla. She scarfed it down anyway and then bolted around the apartment getting dressed.

"I'm coming in Sherlock!" Layla barged into the bathroom ignoring Sherlock's angry snort. She set about brushing her teeth and hair, fixing the latter into an easy bun and then leaned closer to the mirror to apply eye liner and mascara.

"Make-up, planning on looking nice for the party then." Sherlock gazed past her and into the mirror to meet her eye. Layla didn't divert attention from the tight line she was applying to her left eyelid and just replied indifferently.

"Indeed, the party will include photographs and I like to avoid looking like a banshee when I know my image is going to be permanently captured and displayed." She moved onto the other eye and ignored Sherlock as he sarcastically raised his brow and widened his eyes.

"That would be a tragedy. It's pitiful how much you care about other's opinions of you. A woman's vanity, I suppose."

"Yep. And, I guess, the temper tantrum you're throwing now is a man's immature envy. So sad how much Mycroft can get under your skin without even trying. Grow up, Sherlock." Layla kicked the door shut behind him and turned back to her mascara.

"And don't you even dare touch that cake Sherlock Holmes or you will pay!" She shouted through the door when his lack of retort made her uneasy.

"I'd love to see how you could _make me pay_." He had opened the door and was leaning into the room, icing covered forefinger held aloft.

"Fucking shit, Sherlock. I swear!" Layla pushed Sherlock out of her way and jogged into the kitchen, one set of eyelashes still unpainted. There, in the very center of the cake, was a great gash of exposed red velvet bleeding through the pearly white cream cheese frosting. Sherlock dropped the towel that had been tightly tucked about his waist and smoothly crept up behind her.

"It seems I've touched the cake. Whatever will you do, Layla?" He sidled around her and leaned, stark naked, against the kitchen counter in an ornery display of rebellion; Layla had forbidden nakedness in the kitchen for sanitary reasons.

Layla inhaled sharply and turned to the man she had often confessed to love, at least to herself, and slapped him, hard, across the face.

"Physical aggression, Layla, really? I endured far worse yesterday, you'll need to gain a hundred pounds and learn to strike with more potency if you want that recourse to be actually punishing. I expected more of you, at least some clever form of retribution; you're normally so wily." He simpered condescendingly and then strolled from the kitchen.

Layla set aside her plans for revenge and instead turned to mending the wound in Mycroft's cake. Another five minutes of rearranging icing and some creative application of candles and Layla had basically covered Sherlock's marring gesture of fraternal malice.

"Shit, and now I'm late. Have a _lovely_ day, Sherlock, you great twat." She stomped out the door and to the bus all in a huff. Her day didn't improve any with the unpredictable nature of public transport. It was half past clock in hour when Layla finally darted into her departmental lounge.

"Layla! There you are! We've been on tenterhooks, you have the bleeding cake!"

"My apologies Beatrice. I had to deal with an extra nuisance this morning." Layla handed over the cake and collapsed onto the sofa.

"Oh, slow moving over night guest, eh?" Her normally uptight co-worker pointed at Layla's right eye and gave her a knowing wink. Layla grimaced but nodded in agreement, pulling out her portable mascara wand.

"Yeah, something like that. Now where's the big boss man. Let's get this party over with." She applied a few strokes to her empty eyelashes as the rest of her colleagues dashed around the room.

"Sh, sh. Here he comes, everyone act normally."

Mycroft strode swiftly past the break room, eyes glued to the report in his hands.

"Good morning everyone. Not planning a coup d'état, I hope?"

"No, sir. Just waiting for you, actually."

The elder Holmes paused and glanced up from his reading, taking in the situation. His eye danced from the gaggle of uncomfortable researchers to the table they were congregated around and its crowning piece, the red velvet cake. A painfully indulgent grin forced itself on Mycroft's face as he tucked the packet under one arm and turned to face their group.

"Ah, I see you've discovered it's my birthday. How… exhilarating. Let's all refrain from discussing which anniversary this is, shall we?" His smile now looked more like a grimace to Layla as one of her more courageous co-workers ushered Mycroft inside. He glided grudgingly in between their number and stopped in front of the cake.

"This is very kind. A cake. Thank you, oh and tiny umbrellas as candles, how quaint." The group giggled en masse at the joke. His signature, full sized umbrella was, in fact, hanging in the crook of his arm at that moment.

"Here, Mycroft. Have a slice." Layla cut a sizeable portion of cake and set it on one of the gauchely decorated party plates the group had ironically selected. A shiver ran through Mycroft's posh figure as he set his hand on the tacky paper dinnerware.

"Yes. Thank you, _Layla_." Layla was pretty sure that if Mycroft could have reacted outside of bounds of decorum he would have dropped the plate and stormed from the room to cleanse himself of the distasteful miasma that was this party.

"No worries, boss. Happy birthday!" She pushed the plate closer to Mycroft and then handed him a plastic fork. He practically curled his lip in revulsion but accepted the fork and, to appease the plebs, took a dainty bite of the cake.

"Yes, quite—quite good. You clearly know my weakness." He simpered again at the group and then toasted them with his plate. "I'll be off now, work as usual. Speaking of, Layla will you please come with me."

"Yes sir. Just—" Layla hesitated as someone caught hold of her elbow and held up a camera. "—just hold on a sec, for a photo. You know, for the wall." She nodded towards the tack board with the mishmash of Polaroids and hand-cut digital prints.

"Mmm. Of course." Mycroft plastered his usual patronizing smile on his face and posed with the group for the photo, Layla followed suit and after only two additional shots, the two of them were on their way to Mycroft's temporary office in this division.

"Please sit, Layla." Mycroft set the cake on his desk and took a seat himself, gesturing at the chair in front of Layla. "I have a new project, especially suited for you I believe, to introduce you to as well as your project partner." He punched a button on his desk phone and his secretary answered.

"Yes, please send him in now." Layla turned around when Mycroft rose from his desk to shake the man's hand who was entering behind her. "Layla McManis, this is Darren Kellen. He's—"

"My lord, if it isn't little Layla! McManis, you look simply stunning. Come over here!" Layla's jaw nearly hit the floor as the tenor beside her jarred her memory violently. She rose carefully from her chair and inched over to her 'new' partner.

"Darren. Wow, it's been a while. Umph—" She was forcibly wrangled into a rib crushing hug and her words left her with her breath.

"More like a decade plus, McManis. I wouldn't be able tell from looking at you, besides the hair I wouldn't have thought you were anyone besides my undergrad gal."

"Yeah, I stopped changing my hair color to match my converse after I turned twenty-two." Layla pried her arms free from the bear hug and straightened her dress. "How've you been, Darren? I heard the DOD ended up picking you up straight out of college."

"Sure did. You should've come with me, we could've had a blast McManis, you fox." He looked her over appraisingly and winked.

"Ah, superb. You two are already acquainted, that saves me a great deal of time. Please sit Mr. Kellen, Dr. McManis—"

"Doctor? Oh McManis you overachiever, man you're a catch and no one's tied you down yet?" He nodded towards her left hand, empty of any rings.

"Oh, um, no. Seems not." Layla folded her hands in her lap and then turned back to Mycroft who was observing with amused aplomb. "So, Mr. Holmes, let's get down to it. What've you got for me?"

"Yes. To business. The United States government in conjunction with our division has intercepted a very long series of transmissions from a number of out of country circles detailing what we assume to be threats to both nations' security. Unfortunately, they seem to be more than proficient in enciphering these texts. Darren, here, found that he, alone was incapable of decoding the texts. Would you like to explain the problem, Kellen?" Mycroft waved towards Darren and then smiled pointedly at Layla, he was enjoying watching this man rustle her feathers, the haughty bastard.

"Oh yeah, Holmes. So basically, McManis, I don't know how long you've been in the game, but what we have here is a text-based multi-language cipher. The plain text we're aiming to decode to is meant to be in English, we know the group operating is English speaking, but the cipher text itself is in Greek. We thought at first that it was some obscure modern dialect but we couldn't match it up. It seems that it's an assortment of ancient Greek in a dialect I'm not familiar with, you know I only learned Attic. But beyond that we don't know what the code book text is yet, we assume it's going to be in the same dialect, nor do we know the shift index yet."

Layla nodded, it seemed like a reasonable job for Mycroft to seek her out for specifically.

"Okay, I've got it, I can probably determine the dialect when I see it and then translate it once we've worked out the shift."

"Splendid." Mycroft broke in as he stood to distribute two sets of weighty packets to them. "Here are the codes, good luck. I would like an update at each development." He looked down at his own pile of paperwork and Darren and Layla bowed out the door.

"Ah, there's your problem." Layla flipped through the first page as they walked back to her cubicle. "It looks like it's in some Aeolic dialect, maybe even from Lesbos. We'll check Alcaeon and Sappho first."

"That's why we found you McManis!" Darren clapped her on the back and Layla grinned coolly.

"Yes, well, I'll work on translating and you find the various compilations of their texts. You never know which collection they'll have used."

"Yes ma'am! Just as assertive as before. Why did we not work out again, McManis?"

"Because we were practically still children, Darren, and you wanted to move to DC while I was going to California. Not exactly a great match."

"Too bad. Maybe we should've rethought that! Maybe we still can, hey?" He nudged her and smiled with such charisma that at any other stage in her life Layla probably would've fallen fawning into his welcoming arms. Too bad for Darren she had matured since then. Apparently she preferred moody, brooding men who only barely acknowledged their indebtedness to her and the appeal she held for them. _Maybe I haven't matured_.

"Oh, ha ha. Nice try Darren, but I don't double dip, especially not with co-workers. Thanks for the… the compliment?" No, Layla definitely preferred torturing herself with Sherlock the living-dead man-child to being drowned in the over-enthusiastic adoration of Darren the witless wonder. She was frankly surprised he had lasted this long with the DOD without them figuring out he was really just a moron with an extreme dose of charm.

"Aw, oh well! Worth a try, a man can dream, eh?"

"Mmm, sure, just as long as you don't act on them, hands higher bucko." Layla yanked his wandering hand off the small of her back where he had been patting in a definitely southward direction. As flattering as his attentions were, they just weren't flattering. In fact, Layla hated being fawned over, which was perhaps why her arrangement with Sherlock had never been a problem. It was actually more like what she was looking for and moon-faced Darren here was definitely helping to cement that opinion for Layla.

After a full day of flattery, bad pick up lines and scarcely veiled attempts at groping, Layla was more than ready to get back to her temperamental, hot and cold genius just to help rid her of the physical memory of this over-sexed, audacious dunderhead. She was even willing to forget her devious plot for revenge just to see his stupidly gorgeous face and sit in blissful silence with him. Hell, she was actually looking forward to his scathing insults, anything besides 'damn you're a hot piece of ass in those heels, McManis. Who knew you could work the stiletto?'

She ran a few errands on the way back and was more than ready to collapse with sheer exhaustion by the time she stomped through the exterior door of 221 with a heavy sigh. She was searching around in her bag for her personal door keys when she heard the creaking of the floorboards upstairs and cringed.

"Layla? Is that you?" John's voice floated down from the upstairs flat and Layla's shoulders sank. She would have to wait a bit longer for Sherlock's unique greeting today. At least John was just as refreshingly disinterested.

"Yep. Oh! You look fancy! Is that a tie? Mary will be pleased." Layla winked as John jogged down the stairs.

"Ah, yep. Tie for the posh dinner tonight. Did you, by any chance, find that spare front door key? I promised Mary I'd get it to her and she'll be disappointed if I don't have it for her tonight. It's been a couple of weeks." He stopped on the bottom step of the stairs and fidgeted, he was in a hurry.

"Uh, yeah. Well, sort of. I can't actually find it, so I made a copy of mine. Should do though." She rummaged again through her purse and handed it to John. In truth, the spare was with Sherlock.

"Ta. She'll be so happy." John turned to hustle back up the stairs but stuttered on the next step and pivoted back around on Layla. "Oh, and before I forget, Mary's new employer, some single chap or something, he's a widower actually. Anyway, Mary thought you might be interested and he's looking to date again, so yeah. We could all go out sometime this week. I think Mary suggested Thursday. Whad'ya think?" He pulled on his tie and waited seriously for Layla's response.

" Hoooh. Yeah, I don't see why not." She really couldn't come up with an adequate excuse.

"Great, I'll let Mary know. Cheers." He waved the key in Layla's direction and hurried back up the stairs, leaving her to figure out what she would tell Sherlock. _The truth. It's the only reasonable explanation, I just couldn't come up with a good reason not to without arousing suspicion._ She wearily turned the key to her own apartment and dragged herself inside.

"Did you get my violin?" Sherlock was standing with his back to her facing the one window in her basement flat and miming the fingerings of a violin. Who knows how long he had been standing there playing the air-violin and thinking.

"No. You never asked me to. Also, how could I? That's the prize piece in John's shrine o' Sherlock. He'd know if it went missing. I did, however, get you a new prepaid mobile." She set the cell phone in Sherlock's hand, stretched behind him and waiting.

"Thank you. So you're going to start seeing other people." As usual, it wasn't a question. Layla trudged past him and began assembling the elements to a summer salad.

"You're welcome. And yes, but only on the most superficial level. I will 'see' him on the double date with John and Mary and that is as far as it will go. I'm not interested in dating beyond what I have with you, don't worry—"

"I wasn't worried. Why would I be worried?"

"—oh I don't know!" She tossed her hands up in the air but calmed down when she remembered how much she had missed this two hours prior. "Anyway, I couldn't see how I could make a reasonable excuse to John and it was Mary who suggested it, and she's very difficult to turn down." Sherlock scoffed and stomped over to peer at what she was preparing.

"I can't believe he's still with this Mary person."

"Yes you can. You know John Watson as well as I do, better by far, so you know that an intelligent, attractive woman with little to no emotional baggage and a penchant for indulging others is just what he needs if not what he consciously wants. She's perfect. You're just upset because she's replacing you and doing a much better job of it." This time Sherlock snorted. He was clearly perfectly disgusted at that point but didn't respond. Layla ticked a victory to her scoreboard for the day. Sherlock grew very still and sniffed a few times. Layla stopped slicing avocados just long enough to look up curiously at him.

"It appears that you've already been pursuing this 'dating' today." He snatched up a hunk of avocado and stalked off. Layla stared after him, honestly confused. He was hardly ever wrong and she was wondering what she could've done to set him off on this misguided path.

"Um, I actually don't know what you're talking about. I most certainly didn't do any of this 'dating' of which you speak today." She thought back to Darren and shivered. "Most definitely not."

Sherlock laid down the book he had suddenly taken to reading and gazed over at Layla with a studied air of detachment.

"Don't lie to me, Layla. The evidence exposes you." He picked the book back up and used it to block Layla from his vision. She was still confused, so she marched over and snatched the book away, looking him in the eye.

"Look at my face. I'm confused. I don't know what you mean. Now explain where you're assuming this from and then I'll explain that."

"Your scent. It's drenched with cologne, a steam roller of an odor. You've been in close contact with a man all day long." He plucked the book from her clutches and buried his nose in it again.

"HA! Oh god, no. Not even remotely right. Yes, okay, I've _been in close contact_ with a man all day long but not by my choice and not in that way, despite all his efforts. My ex, Darren, came to the building today with a job in tow and I've been assigned to the project as his sole partner. So I'll, unfortunately, be smelling like his crappy cologne for a couple weeks, sorry. But do not let him weigh on your mind for even an instant, he's a pushy idiot and an ex _and_ my co-worker. He's not a threat to you at all."

"I never said I felt threatened."

"No, not directly, but you're body language does." She took the book away for a final time and straddled his lap. At that moment she was more than tempted to tell him that she had missed him that day, that she loved him even, but she resisted and instead made a joke. "Besides, I've already seen his dick, and it's much smaller than yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but his body relaxed and Layla congratulated herself silently. She was getting very good at Sherlock-taming.


	3. I'm Looking Through You

**A/N: Beware! There be smut in these waters. Seriously, if you don't like the carnal, don't read the end of this chapter.**

The rest of Layla's week continued to pile stress onto her already exhausted mind. Darren was inconsiderate and unyielding in his pursuits and, with every additional day of back-breaking assaults, Sherlock's temper soured as if he were the one being worn down on with every corny line and aggressive gesture. Between the two of them, Layla felt as though she were being pulled under the surface of a devouring ocean but when she finally kicked up for air she was constantly rewarded with a hard slap in the face. She wanted desperately to escape the clutches of Darren and Sherlock hated every second Layla spent with the vacant prick but his jealously only stirred the fire of his scorn. He was hurting himself and Layla simultaneously and Layla knew better than to expect that to change. If she was certain of one thing, it was Sherlock's destructive tendencies, to himself and those around him.

Layla knew that the two of them were on the point of breaking but she had no idea how to cope with it beyond quitting this job and she couldn't do that without arousing suspicion with Mycroft and leaving her and Sherlock out in the cold. So, by Thursday, she had decided to speak with Sherlock about the whole mess, to try and talk it through with him although she knew that it was a recipe for failure. It was a daring goal to strive for before a blind date, but it would help to calm her nerves.

"Sherlock, I don't have time this morning because Mycroft is breathing down my neck about this assignment, but when I get back this evening I want to speak with you about how we're going to deal with this Darren kerfuffle. So, please, be back here when I get back. I can't deal with the tension between us anymore."

"It certainly isn't doing anything for your skin." Sherlock glanced up from the newspaper he was browsing and stared pointedly at the blemish reddening on Layla's chin. When she glared coldly and stubbornly back down at Sherlock he dropped the front and nodded in agreement. "Yes, fine. Although I hardly know why you're making so much of it, I'm not bothered." He resumed reading the obituaries and sipped on his tea.

"No. Of course you're not." Layla gave in and trudged out the door. It was barely past seven thirty and her will to argue had already been broken.

Up until lunchtime Layla continued to allow herself to be walked all over. She conceded defeat to Darren's insistent urgings to buy her coffee, she let Mycroft get by with his back-handed insults without a biting retort and she even accepted a completely flawed lunch order from the cafeteria. As she sat by herself in the break room, munching on the unwanted raw onions in her turkey on rye that was meant to be a cornbeef with horseradish, she noticed with half-hearted interest that one of the office attendants was smiling at her. Initially, she assumed that he was trying to flirt with someone sitting behind her, or perhaps that he was enjoying some pleasant daydream. He was, after all, fairly attractive and she was not looking up to par that day. But then, he approached her.

"Oh. Hi. Can I help you? Am I sitting in your place? I'll move." Layla began to gather her things but the man stopped her.

"No, not at all. I'm Colin. Do you mind if I sit with you?" Layla immediately like his voice, smooth and friendly, and Irish. He wasn't her normal sort, but he was definitely attractive: blonde with dark eyes and a very strong jaw. She smiled and nodded, completely astonished by this stranger's kindness. She hardly knew what to do with herself when he offered to buy her a different lunch.

"I noticed you weren't interested in your sandwich, would you allow me to buy you another?" He held out a hand and smiled. He heart melted. This man, Colin, was courteous, calm and friendly; a breath of fresh air amid the shit storm she had endured with the other men in her life.

"Oh, thanks. Thanks so much, and normally I would have gladly accepted but I really have to get back to work. My break was over a few minutes ago, actually. But thanks again." She wrapped up the remains of her disappointing lunch and moved towards the exit.

"Well, maybe some other time?" The lilt caused her to stumble. She turned around and nodded happily.

"Yeah, maybe." Layla scurried away from the tempting Irishman as quickly as possible. The last thing she needed was for Sherlock to have something to actually be jealous about and Layla couldn't trust herself for a second longer with that gorgeous gentleman.

She was positively aglow for the rest of the day. Despite being turned down, that Colin fellow had made an enormous impact on Layla and she found herself thinking about him during the following hours. He even made dealing with Darren manageable. The thought of him did not, however, glow bright enough in Layla's mind to break through the dingy gloom Sherlock had filled the apartment with when Layla returned home.

"Hello, Sherlock. Thanks for being home, I just want to clear the air about Darren—"

"You're… happy." Sherlock uncovered the dressing gown from his head and peered over at Layla from the bed. He looked like he had been sulking in the nest he made of their bed all day.

"Yeah, well, someone was actually pleasant to me today. Apparently that can do wonders for a person's mental health, so here I am doing the same for you. Would you like your violin?" She pulled the instrument in its case from behind her back and offered it to Sherlock. His face brightened for a split second before he resumed his brooding.

"And just who was pleasant to you? Surely not my brother and I assume from your previous reactions to Darren Kellen that any pleasantness from him would translate as an irritant for you. So, who? Not a woman, you don't have many female friends for a reason, you see them as a threat. So it was a man. Did he—"

"Yep, Sherlock. It was a man, a nice, polite man. He noticed I was unhappy and he came over to cheer me up, it was completely innocent." She fished out a violin mute from her purse and handed it over. Sherlock snatched it from her and hugged it close to his chest with his violin case, he was really in one of his states.

"I wouldn't call agreeing to go to tea at a later date completely innocent."

"How would you even—" Layla sat down on the bed and lifted the dressing gown from Sherlock's face, "—argh, I knew I liked his voice too much. Sherlock Holmes, you need to learn some boundaries!" She dropped the silk gown and stomped over to the kitchen.

"I know of boundaries, however, I do not believe that they apply to me. At least not in this case, I was conducting an experiment. I hypothesized that you might, in your current state of duress, stray to other options if they presented. I was correct. You are not the unwaveringly loyal woman you declare yourself to be. I, of course, knew that from the start after what you did to John, but I had assumed it was because of your infatuation with me. I was, it seems, mistaken. You simply follow where the weather is fairest." He pulled the dressing gown closer and curled back into a fetal position around his violin.

Layla felt bad for a second and then snapped out of it. She didn't need to feel guilty. Sherlock had always said that their 'relationship' had nothing to do with feelings. Not only that, but the person she had scolded herself about being attracted to had been _him_ in more prosthetics.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I flirted with _you_, as Colin, because _you_ were being nice and _you_ were the first person to treat me like anything besides a slab of meat, a code-breaking machine, or an indentured servant, yeah that's how you've been treating me, in such a long while that I succumbed to the temptation to smile back and have a pleasant conversation. But you will have noticed that I left when _you_ made an advance and I only said 'maybe' to _your_ offer to be polite. Despite this not being an exclusive relationship, or even any sort of normal relationship, I am committed to you. God knows why."

She waved the knife she had been slicing some lamb with at Sherlock and then returned to finish carving up the hock for _his _dinner, she was still going out that night.

"Then you wouldn't be going to meet that widower tonight."

The knife hit the cutting board with such force that it was lodged shivering in the wood. Layla stormed into the bathroom without a single word, fixed her hair, touched up her make-up and then stalked out of the apartment.

"Where you going?" Sherlock sat up and pouted when Layla didn't respond. She locked the door behind her and climbed the stairs to John's flat, a smile chiseled onto her face. She was determined to have a relaxing evening with him and Mary and whomever they were bringing to introduce to her. Sherlock could figure out his own supper. She just hoped that he put up the rest of that lamb. She didn't want it to spoil.

"Oh, Layla. Hello. You're a bit… well you're extremely early." John peeked out the door and furrowed his brow. "Is everything alright?" He opened the door a bit more, he was in a bathrobe, and must have jogged out of the shower to answer the door. Layla's forced enthusiasm faltered along with the rage that was fueling it. She had interrupted John's afternoon absurdly early because she was furious and now she seemed like a crazy person who was beyond desperate for a date. Her shoulders sagged and her smile faded.

"Oh, John, no. Nothing serious, I'm sorry for alarming you. I just have had a wretched week and I was looking forward to some social time that won't set my teeth on edge." She covered her eyes with her hand and sighed.

"Hey, it's fine, Layla. Come on in. I know it must be rough for you, on your own and dealing with Mycroft. Just have a seat, tea's on in the kitchen, I'll be straight down." John patted her arm reassuringly and led her to the sofa.

"Thanks John." Layla sat down heavily and rolled her neck. John was back in a flash, dried off and fully dressed with a cup of tea in hand. Layla didn't even notice him coming back downstairs and tinkering around in the kitchen. She must have zoned out.

"Here, Layla. Nice cuppa. So tell me, what's been on? Mycroft being a giant twat?"

"Ah, if only it were just Mycroft." Layla accepted the tea gratefully and giggled. "No, it's a whole slew of twats, all men. Sorry, but it's true." John shrugged and sipped his tea.

"You don't really have the best track record now do you?"

"No, certainly not. Currently I'm dealing with an old ex who has decided that he wants to win me back, at any cost. Him and Mycroft who enjoys seeing me squirm with discomfort, I'm only working with Darren by his request."

" That's rotten. If you like, I can take him out for you, I was a soldier, you know." He met Layla's eye over his cup and held it with all seriousness. She giggled and he laughed as well.

"Thanks, John. Hopefully this evening goes well enough that I can just tell him that I'm seeing someone else."

"Right. That would be easier." They laughed companionably again and drained their tea. "Fancy some biscuits? I forgot before but now—"

"No, thanks. I'm fine. So how are you and Mary doing John? It's been several months now. That's pretty serious."

"We're good. All very good. She's lovely and we get on royally. And she makes the greatest tea, no but really she's a fab cook."

"Ah, I'm glad for you John. Really glad." Layla nodded sadly, she missed John. Not only John but John with Sherlock, the two of them were good for each other. Layla still hadn't figured out how to rein the surly detective in like John had been able to. Happily, John seemed to be fine without Sherlock.

"I miss him too, Layla." John laid a hand on her knee and Layla found that she was crying. Even if Sherlock was alive downstairs that very second, their happy life from before the incident had died. A version of Sherlock had died too. He was different now, broken still, and it was beginning to hurt Layla. She just wished she had realized this before she found herself in the sitting room of the person who above all wasn't allowed to know of Sherlock's existence.

"Th-th-thanks, John." Layla snuffled and swallowed a sob. "I miss him terribly. It's hardest when times are difficult like this." She wasn't lying, this Sherlock was the most different she'd faced. Tempestuous and vicious, yes that was normal, but needy and jealous, that wasn't, especially not all at once, and she had no clue how to handle it. John would though, too bad.

"Yeah, I know. You wanna, I don't know, take one of his shirts? I've kept his room closed so maybe you can still sense something of him in there." He nodded towards the shut off back room. Rene shook her head, she didn't want a memory, she wanted a solution.

"No, I'm still angry with him. And hurt, I just want to tell him how I felt, how I feel about him and I want everything to go back to normal." She broke down again, tears marring her make-up and spilling onto her blouse.

"Here, come here." John slid over and pulled her into a hug. "There, there. I know. I talked to him, when it first happened. I went to his headstone and spoke to him, maybe you should try that. Just saying what you need to, just to get it off your chest." He patted her back and handed her a tissue.

"Ack, I've gone and spoilt my face. Thanks." Layla took the tissue and dabbed delicately at her eyes and cheeks.

"Nothing a good wash can't fix. If you want we have a few minutes before Mary'll be over. You can run down and tidy up, or we don't have to introduce you to Paul tonight."

"No, I mean yes, well ugh. No, I still want to go but yes, I think I will run down." She stood up quickly and hustled to the door. "I'll be right back up."

"Take your time!" John sat back on the sofa and sighed, he had been worried about Layla for a while now, and was glad she finally let some of that pent up emotion out.

"What?" Sherlock turned away from the glow of the television set to stare at Layla as she came back in, he was clearly surprised. Layla flipped on the light and he coward from the blinding glare, rubbing his eyes and groaning. "Why?"

"I cried everywhere and now I have to fix myself up." She leaned over the bathroom sink and patted dry the rest of her face before fixing the make-up itself.

"What did John do?" Sherlock sounded even more surprised.

"He didn't _do_ anything _wrong_, he listened and asked me what was the matter, I told him, cried and now I feel a bit better. Speaking of, I still want to talk to you when I get back but about something else, well mostly about something else." Sherlock edged into the bathroom and gazed down at Layla's face.

"Is it about me?" His voice was quiet, careful, maybe even worried.

"Yes, it is." Layla sighed and screwed the cap back onto her mascara. "But don't worry—not that you would—it isn't catastrophic, just something to discuss." She turned smartly to him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him soundly. He froze on the spot and stared at her, it was the first time she had touched him since the beginning of the week, even their sleeping habits had changed since Monday, back facing back, and the physical contact was jarring for him.

Layla ignored his stiffness and skirted around him and out the door. "I won't be out too late. Please be here when I get back." She smiled softly from the front door and the closed it tightly. She already felt better knowing that she would be discussing what was really bothering her, not something she thought might be the cause.

"Alright, John. I'm all fixed up now, let's get going." Layla shouted up at John and was quickly greeted by the anxious doctor.

"Okay, I just heard from Mary, she's collected Paul and wants to meet us at the restaurant. You don't mind Thai, do you? Paul is vegetarian and that's the easiest place to guarantee him a meal."

"Oh, that's fine I suppose. "

"Good, come along then." He hustled out the front door and hailed a cab with Layla tottering behind him.

"John! Layla! We're over here." Mary's excited face glowed out of the dim lighting of the ornately decorated Thai restaurant. John shoved a hesitant Layla ahead of him and grinned at her look of dismay.

"Go on. No time to suddenly become shy."

"Mary. Delightful to see you, dear." Layla reached out a tentative hand and grasped Mary's tightly.

"Hello Layla. You look splendid! This is Paul Powell. Paul, Layla McManis." Layla shook the man's hand in front of her and smiled. He was fairly attractive, maybe thirty-five with brown eyes and lighter hair and a warm smile. His demeanor screamed father and he had a charming down-home sort of style. Layla liked him well enough, at least he was easy company.

"So pleased to meet you, Layla." His voice had a slight Welsh lilt to it and a musical quality. They sat down opposite one another and fell into relaxed conversation about work, and his children. The four of them, Mary to Layla's right and John next to Paul enjoyed a quick meal and a glass of wine before calling it a night.

"This was really great guys, thanks." Layla collected her bag and stood along with everyone else.

"Oh, I agree. Quite a bit of fun, but it's getting late and I have an early shift tomorrow. Mary, if you don't mind I'm going to call it a night, get a cab back to Baker Street. Layla, if you want, I wouldn't mind sharing a cab. I'll be out front." John lifted his brow and nodded his head to Mary. She said her farewells and skipped out behind John.

"Oh, I think I will catch that cab. Sorry but I've had a tiring week. This was nice though." Layla kept her eyes trained on her purse acting like she was searching for something as she tried to let this very nice man off easy.

"Oh, well, that's perfectly fine. Yeah. I need to get back to the children soon anyway." Layla couldn't tell for certain, because she wouldn't look the poor man in the eye, but she thought she heard the disappointment in his voice.

"Oh, John's waving, I need to scram. Nice meeting you!" Layla shook Paul's hand briefly and then scampered off.

"You didn't have to hurry, Layla, or come at all if you wanted to stay with Paul. I just noticed that you were acting distant all dinner, so I thought you might want to turn in early like me." John waved to Mary out the window and slid across the seat to make room for Layla to slide in as well.

"Oh, he's a nice guy John. Just not exactly what I'm looking for." John nodded and crossed his arms.

"You're being gentle. He seemed terribly dull to me."

"Leave it to you, John, to be brutally honest. Although, you're being kind of harsh, he was nice enough."

"You said he was nice already, and he was a bookkeeper, one of the least interesting professions I've ever heard of."

"Gee, John. Not his biggest fan, are you."

"Oh, I'm just disappointed we couldn't set you up with someone better."

"Don't worry about it, Mary did her best. He was, after all, a—a…"

"A nice guy?" John snorted. The two of them giggled in the back of the cab until John was gasping and Layla was doubled over with stitches.

"Did you hear him talking about the exchange rates as though they were the most interesting things he could think of? UGH!" Layla choked on her laughter and leaned back against the seat with a sigh.

"Thanks for trying, though. And then saving me from him. I can't imagine what the rest of the evening could have held."

"Let's try not to." John waved Layla's hand away and paid the cabbie. "I'll see you later, Layla. Try to relax some this weekend." He kissed her on the cheek and headed upstairs to his flat.

Layla took a deep breath and steadied herself for the conversation that was about to happen. She hoped that Sherlock was in an approachable mood, if he wasn't, this was going to be even more trying.

"How was he?" Sherlock was perched on the edge of her swiveling chair playing his muted violin, she recognized the tune. It was Vivaldi's _Winter_ and he was pouting, but not bitter.

"Ugh. so. painfully. DULL." Layla dropped her purse on the ground and sat down at the foot of the bed. She looked up to find a quiet little smile dancing around Sherlock's lips but pretended not to notice. "So, listen up Sherlock, here's the bottom line. Things like this have to continue. John thinks I'm pining over you, which is a little true and I'll get back to in a second," she held up a hand to silence him and continued, "so because he thinks I'm lonely and need someone he's probably going to insist on setting me up on these dates until I 'find' someone to 'fill the void.' So this façade isn't just going to go away." Layla stood and moved over to the wardrobe to change into her pajamas.

"Now, back to the real issue at hand, you're jealous. Of Darren, of Mycroft, of who knows who else, but you _are_ clearly jealous of the other people who are getting my attention and I don't know how to handle that. Sherlock, the man I first fell on my face over in painfully embarrassing infatuation was not jealous, at least not over me and above all, he wasn't needy. You've gotten needy, and it's weird. Maybe this is how you were with John, I don't know, but it needs to stop with me. I like you as the detached ass who treated me like the person I was, a woman who you wanted to spend time with, not your nanny or worse, some weird parent figure that you also fuck, not that we've been doing _that_ lately. You're tantrum has put an end to that too. See, this change has thrown off our relationship entirely!" Layla tugged her night gown over her head and flopped back down on the bed.

"So, to summarize. I have to pretend to be normal and date, but I'm not interested in them, I'm interested in you. Not this particular version of you, but you when you're confident and independent. Now be that disinterested bastard again and I'll start touching your naughty parts again as well." Layla waited for Sherlock's response quietly at first but then began to fidget nervously as he continued to sit and stare off into space. He breathed in deeply turned towards her and nodded, face smooth and emotionless. The mask was on.

"Fine." He started thrumming out the opening chords of an original composition, or at least something Layla didn't recognize and turned back away from her.

"Fine? That's it?"

"Yes, Layla. I've lost sight of myself during the last week. I will address the issue and things can return to normal." His nose twitched as he admitted his fault but the mask otherwise stayed in place.

"Really? You're not going to tell me that my demands are one sided and unfair, or that I'm an assuming idiot for thinking that you were jealous or needy? Just 'fine' and nothing else?" Layla was panicking, her talk had backfired and now Sherlock had withdrawn completely.

"I am jealous, and 'needy' as you so bluntly put it. I need to correct this." A new chord, dissonant and haunting, floated softly through the apartment. Layla stood up and walked over to snatch the violin from him. He was playing mournful music. She had broken him. She was going to slap some sass back into him.

"What is wrong with you?" She tossed the violin onto the bed. Sherlock frowned at the abuse of his instrument and slid past her to retrieve it.

"Nothing is wrong with me, not anymore. I was being ruled by my emotions, now I'm controlling them again."

"Controlling! You've just given in. You're like a great big noodle just letting me do whatever I please to you. Did I break you?"

"Break me, Layla? Are you sure _you're_ alright?" He set the bow to the strings and continued the quiet strain.

"Sherlock! Stop ignoring your emotions! You're a broken man. You claim not to care about anyone else or need anybody but you do! You miss John, you've admitted that he is important to you and it's clearer now than ever that he is. You need to realize that, and then accept that you can either deal with the hole he's left or tell him you're still freaking alive! Then, you can stop displacing your pining after him on me and we can resume our relationship. Yes, our relationship, because all this jealousy pretty much proves that you have some kind of feelings for me and, are you ready? I have them for you. On good days, I might even say that I love you, but that isn't important. We're together, be with me as me and deal with your feelings for John separately because I can't take this new Sherlock. He's unbearably frustrating. It's probably compounded by your lack of mental distraction but we can deal with that, learn some new languages, something, anything, just be Sherlock again. I miss _Sherlock_!"

The violin quieted and Sherlock turned around slowly to face Layla. His eyes were clouded but the cold wall of the mask had subsided.

"I do miss John. Excellent deduction Layla, but I can't tell him I'm back. Not yet." Sherlock stepped back to the desk chair and wilted onto it. "I will, now that I have some control again, 'deal with' that fact. Please accept my apology."

"Of course." Layla ran her hand over his head and walked towards the bathroom.

"Layla. There's more." She pivoted on the spot and, after a graceless stumble, moved back to sit in front of Sherlock again. "You were also right about other things… I'm jealous not only because of the misplaced pining after John. I legitimately do not enjoy you going out with other men. Moreover, I am not especially fond of feeling jealous about it. So stop." Layla blinked a few times as Sherlock gazed down at her with unwavering steel blue eyes. "Please." His intensity was certainly back.

"Uh, I thought I already explained this I need to keep from making them sus—"

"Then date Colin."

"What?"

"You liked Colin well enough, I can be him in public. If you didn't realize it was me, no one else will."

"You're volunteering to become a _different person_, and then, in addition to being a different person, just let me emphasize that part, you're also willing to act like we're in a couple. A devoted, relationship-y couple. In public. With relationship things, like holding hands. Holding hands and being nice to one another. You're volunteering for all of that?"

"Indeed."

"Okay, you've lost it. Get in bed, I'm getting the thermometer and checking WebMD. Maybe—"

"No, I'm sane and serious Layla," he grabbed her hand and spun her around from the computer, "I can act convincingly and for sustained periods of time without any bother. If it keeps me from being weakened by an emotion like envy, then I'm willing to do it. Just don't push your luck. Once, maybe twice a week. At most. And I won't ice skate. No exceptions." He set his jaw and stared frostily down at Layla.

"Yeah, alright, you're still Sherlock. Now let go of me, I want to write a binding contract, preferably in blood. This is incredible." She tried to wriggle free from his grasp but it was unrelenting. "Hey, lose the icy stare Sherlock, it gets old. And let go. I need to commemorate this moment with a signature or a voice recording, something. Sherlock's gonna be my boyfriend. Urgh, damn you're like a steel trap." She pulled at his fingers and strained against his grip, even pushing against his chest with her other hand.

"This is pitiful." Sherlock shook his head slowly. "If you can't free your hand from me, someone who has no intention of harming you, what would you do if someone depraved caught hold of you?"

"Kick him in the balls?" Layla stopped squirming and looked up hopefully at Sherlock's face. "I've been pretty lucky so far with that and just avoiding assholes who don't take 'no' for an answer. I only date good guys."

"I'm not a good person, Layla." Sherlock released her hand and retrieved his violin.

"Sure you are. Like I said, I only date good guys. You may have your flaws but you are absolutely and undoubtedly a great man. Now get back over here and show me how to get out of that iron clasp of yours!" Layla tugged on Sherlock's elbow and only succeeded in ruining his refrain.

"And I won't ever be." He said it so quietly that Layla barely heard him.

"Sherlock! Stop being so broody, I knew I shouldn't have gotten that violin for you. I went and bought a dummy for the shrine upstairs and now I'm out all that money just to have you grinding away at it, sad and mope-y, and without showing any appreciation."

"Oh, stop prattling. There—" he stopped playing and set the instrument on her desk, "—are you happy?" Layla crossed her arms and swung out a hip, her jaw set in a determined scowl. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Thank you, Layla."

"You're very welcome, although..." She took the opportunity to wrap her hand around the back of his neck and hold him closer to her height. "I meant a _different_ kind of appreciation."

"But you were angry with me." His eyes narrowed with confusion as Sherlock searched Layla's face. She surely didn't look angry at that point.

"I was, but, it's funny, you admitting to being jealous made me, I don't know, feel wanted again. It was like you wanted to stake your claim on me, while at once objectifying and demeaning, it's also sexy. I'm conflicted." Layla shrugged and leaned in again to kiss him.

"But thinking of you being jealous just irritates me." Sherlock furrowed his brow and straightened up leaving Layla sighing with frustration.

"Well, you don't need to." She reached up to pull his face down to hers again but Sherlock caught her wrist.

"Why? I've never declared any modicum of devotion to you." His feathers were ruffled again.

"Ugh, great. The iron clasp again. Yeah, yeah you have. When you came back and I was throwing my fit you said you wouldn't be with me if you didn't want me and me alone. That's a pretty clear declaration. Besides, before me, you were a virgin. Who am I going to be jealous about, your hand? You never showed any interest in anyone else." Layla waved off Sherlock's question but grew suspicious with his strange silence. "Did you?"

"I was a virgin and no, I never showed interest in anyone else."

"But there was another woman."

"Yes, but she's just a memory." Sherlock released Layla's arm and she backed away from him.

"Man, you sure are a difficult person to be with, Sherlock. I think I know everything I can about one tiny sliver of your life but then you go and blindside me." She sighed and pulled out her phone tapping away on it for a few seconds before holding up the screen. "Is that who sent this? The memory? That's what you said then as well."

"I deleted this." Sherlock frowned as he read the message from many months before: _Congratulations you're the first._ It had arrived after Layla had kissed him for the first time.

"Yep, but I had my phone company retrieve it when I thought you were gone. I tried texting back the number but I never received a response." Layla gently took back the phone and reread the message. "So who is she?"

"No one anymore."

"What?"

"She's meant to be dead."

"Yeah, well that's not familiar or anything. But really, she isn't, so who is she?"

"The woman." Sherlock stared over Layla's head, distant and withdrawn.

"_The _woman." Layla slammed the phone into Sherlock's palm and then stalked over to the bed. "No sex for you tonight, mister! Oh and I was planning on some naughty stuff!" She flung back the covers and hurled herself onto the bed.

"You're being—"

"If you say histrionic, so help me, I will _will_ a uterus into your body and then punch you in it. Repeatedly." She pulled the blankets up and over her head with a huff.

"—irrational." Sherlock pried back the covers and set her phone in her hand. "You don't need to be jealous. She tried and failed where you succeeded. And believe me, she tried. She introduced herself to me by walking in completely nude."

"_That's_ the naked woman…" Layla's voice was dangerous, she remembered clearly Sherlock's response to seeing Layla completely naked for the first time. It was unimpressed. And he had said someone else had 'pulled it off better' than Layla. Sherlock could see the color rising in her face as Layla continued remembering, remembering how John had comforted her wounded pride, "… so, _this_ is Irene." She smirked, at Sherlock's shock.

"How do you know her name?"

"John. John, when _you_ insulted me, he told me that Irene had done the 'all laid bare' act before me and that, although you seemed cool, you had been 'smitten.'"

"I wouldn't have said smitten… I was—"

"Yes?"

"Intrigued."

"Intrigued?"

"Yes, but she was a— is a nasty manipulative woman who I wouldn't have approached because that would've been losing. It was all about the game with her, if I had conceded an inch by showing interest she would've won. So I didn't. And I won't." Sherlock pulled out his old phone, the one he kept on him but never turned on, and removed the data card from it. "See." He held out his new phone with a list of text messages on it. 'Let's have dinner' glowed out onto Layla's face over and over again but only one response interrupted the stream of monologue messages from Irene.

"That says 'I'm not dead let's have dinner.' Did she fake her death twice?" Sherlock grinned and nodded.

"Indeed. The second time with my help. She's been completely undetectable since, except for her text to you." He powered off the phone and removed the data card, replacing it and stowing the relic.

"Okay, fine. I'm not jealous anymore. She may have been gorgeous but she seems… difficult." Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"You are a petty woman at times Layla."

"Guilty as charged, but so are you… a petty man. I mean, jealous of your brother because it was his birthday? That's just absurd."

"Hmm. Well, Mycroft is a… a prick."

"And being jealous of Darren, oh sweet lord. That guy is so awful, you had no reason—"

"Sh. No more." Sherlock laid a hand over Layla's mouth and shook his head. "I've listened to that rant once already and that was more than sufficient." He removed his hand slowly and dared her with his eyes to start yacking again.

"Still, you… jealous! HA! What did you think he was going to do? Lay me over a desk and pound into me at work?" Sherlock growled threateningly but Layla ducked out of his reached and batted aside his hand. "Did you actually sit here and really think that I was going to let another man lay into me within spitting distance of other people, of your brother! Ha! You did, didn't you?" She pointed at the flare of his nose and the pursing of his lips. "Oh god! No wonder you were so worked up, you can't let your mind dwell, it'll come up with some pretty convincing images." She sprung up on the bed and crawled closer to Sherlock.

"What did you think about? Hmm? Whenever I'm being jealous I always picture the ways I don't let men touch me. Did you do that?"

"In a way." Sherlock's face shivered with anger and Layla knew she should stop prying but seeing him jealous again made her hot.

"So, what? Was it bent over the desk? That's a classic. Or was I just on my knees? My last boyfriend always freaked out when I complained about my knees aching or being stiff, like from sitting or walking for too long, because he had this neurosis about me blowing other men at the university." She slid closer again when Sherlock pushed her away.

"No." Sherlock snarled and shrunk away from her again, he was really worked up.

"Oh, okay sourpuss. I was just kidding, you know I wouldn't do that." She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder coaxed him back off the edge. "Hey, seriously, he's gross and teeny tiny." She held up her hands in demonstration and nodded.

"You're reusing arguments." Sherlock sneered over at her and then stood to walk over to the wardrobe. He peeled off the sweater he had been wearing and tossed it in the hamper before also removing his jeans.

Layla prowled over, stopping him from stepping into his pajama bottoms by laying a hand on his forearm.

"Are you rescinding your threat of no 'naughty' sex tonight?" Sherlock blinked sarcastically and gently removed Layla's hand.

"Yes, now stop blocking my advances. It's been four days and I'm getting twitchy." She tried a different approach, snaking her hands down his bare chest towards the waistband of his underwear. Sherlock shivered and breathed in slowly.

"I'm sorry for offending you." His baritone rippled over Layla as she excitedly snuck her hand beneath his cotton boxers.

"When?" She bit her lip as Sherlock lurched forward towards her ghosting touch along his hip.

"About the bare all approach." Sherlock's voice dropped an octave and grew gravely.

"Mmm. Thank you." Layla ran the tips of her fingers over his inner thigh and up to his testicles, skirting around them ever so closely but not touching. Withdrawing her hand from within them, Layla then pulled off his pants and tossed them in the hamper as well.

"Much better." She moved around from behind him, palming his ass in the process and surveyed her handiwork. He was clearly aroused and staring down Layla with his signature unblinking gaze. "Lighten up, Sherlock." She pressed herself up to him and relished the heat of him pulsing against her stomach, through her cotton nightdress. "Whatever else you're dwelling on, put it aside for now. I'm going to require your full attention." She stepped back and stripped off her dress. Sherlock's eyes darted over her and then returned to rest on her breasts. Layla smiled as he twitched and then hopped back to sprawl mostly naked over the bed.

"Fine." Sherlock lunged forward and ripped her panties down and off before pinning her to the bed and taking her nipple in his mouth.

Layla hissed as the sensation, warm and moist compared to the cool air of her apartment. While his tongue was busy dancing around her breast, Sherlock's hands were occupied elsewhere. At first one was teasing her opening, tracing the edge of her center and grazing the tip of her mound of nerves but never touching her most sensitive parts, just like she had done to him moments before. Then it fell to fondling him. Layla watched carefully since she had never seen Sherlock handle himself, beside in the process of starting or ending penetrative sex, maybe he had begun masturbating while she had been shunning him, or maybe even all those months ago after she had left. Either way, he certainly was doing something of the sort at that moment. She sat up even further, moving from holding herself up on her elbows to her hands, to get a better look but instead she just drew Sherlock's attention to the fact that she was watching.

"Problem?" He rumbled as he moved to her other breast and left a cool trail over the width of her chest.

"No" she breathed, "just enjoying the show." She bit her lip as Sherlock's grip tightened and speed increased. A warm feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach and she started panting. The heaving of her chest dislodged Sherlock from his nibbling and he drew away to investigate her face. She was flushed, eyes heavily lidded and fully dilated and mouth opened into a perfect little o. He knelt completely on the bed between her legs and hovered over her, forcing her to lie back.

"Better?" He kept his head lifted and watched Layla's face as she gazed down at his right hand pumping his length, the tip of him mere centimeters from her opening. She nodded slowly and reached down to touch herself, pressing down on her clit and fondling circles around it. Soon she was bucking up and against his head. Sherlock stop his ministrations and steadied himself just at her opening.

"Move your hand." He muttered deeply into her mouth and then kissed her soundly, caressing her lips and tongue with his. Layla obeyed, moving her both her hands to his arms, taut and veined from the exertion. He held himself still just above her for what felt like several minutes before they parted to breathe.

"Sherlock, please." Layla whined and hitched up her hips. He did not disappoint and he entered her fully and forcefully. As he throbbed inside of her Layla mewled and flexed around him, adjusting to having him inside of her again. He twitched and groaned when Layla began rolling her hips around him and coaxing him into full motion. He moved even further into her, grinding his pelvis against her and sending jolts of electricity out from her hub of arousal.

He had long ago discovered just how to tweak her orgasms and often employed such means to get her off early on in sex. He did so now thrusting four or five times into Layla with short deep motions hitting her bundle of nerves each time, and then circled his hips against hers before withdrawing for slow fluid thrusts. Just as she was on the edge he slammed hard into her rapidly and reaped the benefit as she spasmed around him and moaned his name. As soon as Layla was pulsing with the waves of her orgasm Sherlock picked up the pace bucking into her more regularly and drawing out her twitching rush of bliss.

"Leg up." He lifted her knee over his shoulder and leaned over her, pressing deeply into her, more slowly but with just as much force.

Layla grabbed his short auburn hair and pulled his delicious lips crashing into hers, biting to keep him close when he drew away. Holding him there she pivoted her hips and flexed her insides along with his thrust in and relaxed when he pulled out. With the shorter thrusts she soon felt the humming tingling building at her center again and moved her hips more forcefully to meet him. She lost control when Sherlock moaned her name. As the blood rang in her ears Sherlock rammed into her erratically and then collapsed bucking weakly inside of her and filling her with an additional rush of warmth. Layla's leg slid like jelly off his shoulder and wilted to hang limply off the side of the bed.

"That was different." Layla murmered with contentment as Sherlock gasped for air on top of her.

"I've been reading." His voice was weary and his face was buried in her hair but Layla was fairly certain that Sherlock was smiling.


	4. Nowhere Man

**A/N: Warning: more smutty smut to be found here. In fact, just assume from this point on that there could be naked parts and thrusting around any corner. **

Layla had the most distinct feeling that she was tumbling through the air. Or at least she was flailing around like she was falling through dead space. She had been flying a few seconds before, like a kite. _Wait. That's not right_. Her brain stuttered over the absurdity of the dream her subconscious had woven and kicked back into normal processing. Layla realized that her body was, in fact, in motion but not free fall, she was being shaken. Her eyes peeled open and tried to focus in the absolute lack of light.

"Oh good. You're awake." The glossy light of Sherlock's eyes soon appeared in Layla's vision and she groaned.

"Yeah, since you shook me out of that silly thing we mere mortals call sleep. I was flying." Layla rolled away from him to face the other side of the bed.

"That's nonsensical. You were dreaming that you were flying, not literally flying. What silly visions you enjoy." Sherlock pulled off the bedclothes that Layla had pulled up to her chin and continued to speak at full volume. Layla shoved her pillow around her ears and tried desperately to fall back to sleep, to go back to being a kite. It didn't work, Sherlock had now stolen her pillow as well.

"Oh, what do you want? It's—" she turned back to the night stand to check the time, "—it's freaking 2 in the morning, Sherlock! What are you even doing awake?" She flopped over onto her stomach and stuck out her arm in an attempt to push him away from her. Another failure.

"Thinking. Well, I was thinking until my body began to rebel against me. So I woke you up, fix it." Layla gave up trying to ignore him and rolled over to inspect whatever needed fixing.

"What did you—oh." Now that Layla had given in, Sherlock was lying on his back, hands pressed together below his chin and stark naked, not a stitch of sheet covering the problem he was facing.

Layla snatched back her pillow and lay back down.

"Fix it yourself. I know you can."

Sherlock turned his head to rebuke Layla but frowned instead, there was a pillow in his way. He resumed his pondering pose and tried a different approach, honesty.

"This is a pressing matter, the thinking, not the erection however much my body begs to differ, and I can return to it quicker if you assist me."

Layla exhaled in a huff and twisted over onto her back so that she could see Sherlock. He continued to lie on his back, waiting patiently for her to proceed. Despite being infuriated at being woken so early on a 'work' night, she was relieved that Sherlock was awake at weird hours of the night again and thinking. Her talk had done its job, she had pulled Sherlock out of his depression. Things were returning to normal. Maybe she wouldn't have to physically shake him in the morning to wake him. Maybe she wouldn't have to moderate his sleeping habits ever again. These thoughts made her feel more generous.

"Fine, do what you will with me, but make it quick. I've got to get up in the morning." So she compromised.

"So tempting." Sherlock scoffed as he flipped on top of her and began fingering her, applying generous pressure to her clitoris and dipping his fingers in and out of her.

"And you lying there inert and demanding to be serviced is dead sexy." She tried to remain disdainful but his ministrations busted her front and a whimper escaped on the skirt tails of her retort.

"My way would have been more efficient." Sherlock, growing impatient with his manual attempt at lubrication slid further down her body and buried his face in her sex.

"Ah, I told you quick!" Layla shivered involuntarily and reached down to press his face closer, out of habit.

"I'm making it _quick_. You're the one impeding the expediency of this." He spoke directly into her, not bothering to move his mouth away from her uncooperatively unresponsive opening. He noticed that the vibrations of his voice aided his cause and began humming against her as his licked and nipped her nub.

"Finally." He removed his hand from her folds, now adequately moistened and took hold of his straining hardness. Stroking it a few times, he positioned himself to enter Layla but then changed his mind. "Flip over."

Layla groaned, "You know it hurts me that way."

"I'll be careful, and it'll be faster." Sherlock grabbed her thigh and pulled it across Layla's body causing her to roll over onto her side. She sighed and crawled onto her knees. Sherlock spread her thighs apart pulled her hips back and up and then slid inside of her with a moan. Layla, surprising herself, leaned back into his warmth and pressed her bottom against his stomach.

"Oh, what—" Layla breathed as Sherlock moved inside her with measured, well placed strokes.

"It's the angle. Like I said before, I've been reading." Holding onto her hips, Sherlock slid in and out of her from tip to root over and over without causing a bit of pain for Layla. Even when his speed and force increased she was unbothered, mostly because she was too busy rocking back into him and holding onto the headboard for dear life.

"Shh." Sherlock placed his hands over hers and calmed the shaking of the headboard. "You'll bang the neighbors awake."

"Oh, just hurry up and fuck me." Layla moaned with his thrusts and shook his hands off hers, she was going to make as noise as she wanted: _Mrs. Hudson and John can get the fuck over it_. Sherlock removed his hands to her hips but thinking better of it, slid one around to toy with her clit again.

"Climax for me." He hissed and teased her mound of nerves hard between his fingers. Layla squealed and bucked into his hand ferally, finding it harder and harder to stave off the rushing warmth in the pit of her stomach. Sherlock encouraged the orgasm he observed building by thrusting quicker and shallower into her, while making a point to groan and pant knowing full well that his noises drove Layla mad. It worked and Layla fell onto the headboard on her elbows shaking and gasping as her center sent out bursts of delicious, nerve-tingling thrumming. Sherlock finished immediately after with a final spasming jerk and pulled out of her still dripping.

"Ew, come on Sherlock." Layla slid down the length of the headboard and collapsed with her face in the pillow but ass still in the air. "Now, I'm going to have to change the sheets. I can't sleep in your fluids."

"Our fluids, and I was just making things quick like you requested." He used the edge of the now spoiled sheet to wipe himself off and then perched on the edge of her desk chair, immediately re-immersed in thought. "Please stop presenting your bottom in that way or I fear my body will interrupt my brain again." He muttered distantly.

Layla pulled her knees back under her chest and laid there, in a strange fetal position atop her pillow, for a few minutes to regain her strength. Before she knew it a few minutes became four hours and her alarm was screaming angrily at her from the bedside table.

"Shit! Fuck! What?" Layla leapt from the bed and stared wide-eyed around the apartment. It was lit, daylight spilling in through her solitary window, so she had fallen asleep without changing her sheets, and had indeed slept amid their juices. Sherlock was still there, curled in on himself with knees under his chin and arms wrapped around his legs concealing the rest of his naked body on her desk chair. He didn't respond to her alarm or her squawking so he must have been deep in thought.

"Christ, that was… wow." Layla stared at Sherlock for a few seconds as she assessed the soreness of her entire body and tried to remember falling asleep. She had been so exhausted by the intensity of her climax that she had fallen asleep practically instantaneously, but Sherlock was sitting there, having slept little or none that night, completely awake and concentrated. _Yep, he's definitely back._ Layla smiled to herself and turned to wash off the remnants of their exploits leaving the detective to his pondering.

"It's Sapphic fragments." Sherlock's voice rang out in the silence of the apartment when Layla padded still dripping from the bathroom.

"Oh. You think so?" She didn't bother asking how Sherlock had obtained a copy of the transcript she was decoding or how he knew about Sappho.

"I know that it is. They're using the war metaphors." He moved from his statuesque pose to retrieve a book from her shelves. "Here and here. These are the start codes." He flipped between two of the most incomplete poems in the Lyric Anthology which Layla kept for reference. She held her a freshly toasted slice of bread between her teeth and peered down into the book in Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, well, I'll be damned. You're right. Those lines are distributed throughout the transmission. They must be using them as the source refrain. Thanks Sherlock." She grabbed the mug of coffee she was fixing and moved over to sit in her now empty chair for breakfast and email checking. Sherlock followed.

"Now you can finish this project and return to your normal work." He stole the toast from her plate and began munching on it while reading over Layla's shoulder.

"Yeah, eventually but you've definitely… oh—yeah, made my job easier and therefore faster." Layla reached out for her toast, found it missing and then glanced back to ascertain the cause. She hadn't expected the nakedness. Not that she should have assumed otherwise but, in the daylight and at such close proximity, it was shocking. But in a good way. _Too bad he's eating my toast and not utilizing his mouth some other way._ Layla sighed and raking her eyes along Sherlock's body stood from her chair to make another slice of toast. Sherlock slid into the seat after her and sipped from her coffee helping himself to her breakfast and her emails simultaneously.

"Fine, co-opt my meal. I'll have something at work." She chuckled at Sherlock's resumption of his usual habits and decided to get dressed instead.

"How do I look?" Layla stepped out of the bathroom feeling whimsical, she knew that there was no way that Sherlock's response was going to be kind or helpful but she was in a good mood.

"Severe." Sherlock ran an appraising eye over Layla's pant suit and then returned to ransacking her emails. Layla shrugged, she'd heard worse from him and the black and gray monochromatic choice could come off a little ascetic.

"Why?" Layla looked up from packing her satchel to find Sherlock staring at her with narrowed eyes. "Why does it matter how you look today?"

"Feeling suspicious again, eh?" Layla smiled and walked over to pat Sherlock on the shoulder. He continued glaring. "I have a half-progress report to deliver to Mycroft today and it's always easier to deal with him when he can't immediately sneer down his nose at my choice of clothing." She shrugged and smoothed out a fold in her trousers.

"Ah. Then I would change your shoes." Sherlock leaned forward to inspect Layla's choice in sensible footwear.

"Oh, I know, but real heels hurt me." Layla pouted and slipped off her small-heeled pumps.

"Mycroft finds comfort to be a sign of inferiority in woman's fashion. You've seen what his assistant wears." Layla nodded and stepped into a pair of proper three plus inch heels. She admired Anthea's gorgeous clothing collection but not having to wear it, some of those pieces looked like sartorial torture.

"Thanks. I'll see you this evening." Layla returned to the bed to collect her bag and found that her phone was missing. Sherlock had it in his hands and was quickly typing.

"I've renamed my contact in your phone. From now on I'm Colin Bellamy, physical chemical researcher from King's College." He handed back her phone and returned to her computer without pause.

"Okay, Dr. Colin Bellamy, physical chemical researcher from King's College, my super smart boyfriend." Layla simpered at Sherlock's gesture of disgust and flounced out the door.

Sherlock's eye followed her movement to the door and he waited until he heard the lock click to set aside her laptop. Stepping quietly to the door he listened at the jamb for Layla to shut the exterior door. Instead he overheard the morning salutation of his best friend.

"Morning, Layla. You look posh, meeting with Mycroft?"

"Gee, thanks." She was being sarcastic. Sherlock still didn't understand this woman's reliance upon that conversational quality. "I have to make some super schmancy report and I don't want him to compare me to a street urchin again. Off to the surgery?"

"Yep. Just need to stop in to give Mrs. Hudson the rent."

"Oh shit." Sherlock jerked away from the door expecting Layla to come bursting through in a frantic search for her check book. The door, however, remained un-assaulted so he eased back against it.

"—that later I suppose. Thanks for reminding me."

"Oh, while I've got you, Mary felt really bad about Paul so she told me to tell you that she'll make it up to you as soon as is possible." John's voice grew closer as he approached Mrs. Hudson's door and gave it a few knocks.

"Um, actually John, that may not be necessary. See, I met this guy at work yesterday, before our double date, and we kind of hit it off, exchanged numbers and whatnot and—morning Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh hello love. Rent? Thank you Dr. Watson."

"I'll get it to you later, promise."

"That's fine. You know where to find me." A click and the little land lady must have retreated to her rooms.

"Anyway, he texted me and we're having tea today so… I guess we'll see how that goes. Maybe I'll be bringing him on our next group dinner outing."

"That's brilliant Layla, I can't wait to meet him..." Their voices grew distant and the street noise dulled Sherlock's perception of their conversation even before the front door closed with a thud.

Sherlock stepped away from the door and rolled his eyes, Layla had certainly lied well on the spot. Not that it mattered, she was merely putting into action the plan they had already agreed upon. Sherlock had more important things to attend to: Darren Kellen was a two-timing wanker, Sherlock was sure of that. He just needed to obtain the proof to convince Layla.

He had observed, in the course of spying on Layla the previous day, that Darren was indeed heavily invested in wooing his co-worker, but he was more intent upon taking discreet breaks during their work period at regular intervals without attracting attention to himself. Sherlock had found this to be remarkable and, beyond brooding over how these breaks could be inherent to Layla succumbing to his advances, decided that this Darren Kellen was worth investigating.

Sherlock had discovered that, despite nearly constant activity on the DOD servers, Kellen had hardly any real work to his name. In the twelve years he had worked for the United States government he had only been credited with four joint projects. This was suspicious for a number of reasons, a cryptologist was subject to several projects within a single month, and would therefore have many hundreds of 'breaks' to show for it. Either Kellen was a terrible cryptologist, or his projects were incredibly sensitive. To Sherlock's eye Kellen did not seem to be one who was intelligent enough to be entrusted with hundreds of unusually sensitive projects, so something was off with his record.

That was when he found the probationary restrictions. Darren Kellen had been twice reprimanded for 'non-procedural activities' and had been restricted from inter-governmental involvement for six out of the twelve years he had worked there. The six most recent years. Apparently he had been moved to the 'training' sector of the department. So why was he here now, working on a intra-governmental cipher that was of vital importance to both governments, straight out of the strictest of probations?

Sherlock repositioned the blonde wig and inspected his ensemble once more before heading out the door. He was going to expose Darren Kellen that day.

Sure enough after several hours of patient watching from the café across the street Sherlock succeeded in observing Darren sneaking out of the government building, briefcase in hand, and down a back alley. He followed at a reasonable distance until Kellen entered a sports facility. Sherlock sighed, he would have to secret himself in since this persona of his was not a member of this gym, or any gym.

Layla was having a difficult day. _Every day is difficult now._ She grumbled internally and watched as Darren collected her translations and moved to his cubicle for copying. She didn't really understand why he couldn't just do that here, but she wasn't complaining. This way there was less of the flirting and the gross innuendo.

"What are you doing?" She stared at a nebulous pattern in the Greek but couldn't spur her brain on to see the connection, so she just continued translating.

"Are you flagging certain words?" She jabbed her pen angrily at the verse refrain interrupting a line of otherwise nonsensical words. A bleep sounded from her purse and Layla retrieved it to find a new message from 'My Super Smart Boyfriend.' She had changed his name label again for kicks.

_Café across the street in twenty._ Layla growled at the screen, she didn't enjoy being summoned, especially when it would interrupt her work.

_What is it? I'm busy._ Eighteen minutes later and Sherlock still hadn't responded so Layla took her lunch break and stomped across the street.

"Okay, I'm here. What is it?" Layla flopped down with exasperation across the booth from Colin-shaped Sherlock.

"Hi, had a better lunch today, I hope." Sherlock put on the lilting brogue of the previous day and smiled warmly at Layla. She did not respond well.

"I just had to leave in the middle of a very productive train of thought, I may have been very close to deciphering this bitch," her voice was quiet but more than dangerous. Sherlock smiled wickedly at the glint of fury in her eye, "now to what do I owe this surprise?" She sat back with an unctuous grin and raised her voice to normal speaking volume. At least she was playing along.

"I owe you a sandwich and I have some pictures for you." He handed her his phone and waved over a waiter, taking the opportunity to order their lunch while Layla stared uncomprehendingly at the screen. She couldn't believe what she was looking at. It was a photo of her translation but with little red circles around the certain words she had noticed before and notes in the margin clearly explaining the code.

"B-b-but that's his—"

"Indeed."

"—he wrote this?"

"So it seems."

"But he's an idiot."

She handed the phone back to Sherlock and whipped out her own. Sherlock snatched it from her hands and shook his head slowly, typing out a message on her open text widget before passing it back.

_He can't know that you know. You'll be in danger._

Layla nodded slowly and then deleted the text.

"So, we'll talk about this later?" She sounded upbeat again when the waiter returned with their drinks.

"I think that's best. Maybe not mention it again 'til then?" Sherlock met her eye and made his intention very clear—there was no 'maybe' in that order.

"You know, I might call in the rest of the day sick." Layla pulled out her phone and dialed in Mycroft's number.

"A prudent plan." Sherlock sipped his tea and listened carefully as Layla fabricated some excuse for not returning to work, she chose a loose filling. A problem Mycroft could relate to.

"Holy freaking crap, Sherlock! What are we going to do?" Layla broke into panicked squawking as soon as she closed her apartment door behind them.

"You're going to cease translation until I find a way to expose Kellen to Mycroft without revealing my own hand in the discovery." He started towards the bathroom to remove the uncomfortable and elaborate prosthetic.

"Uh—don't hate me, but I promised John that I would introduce you to Mary and him tonight over dinner, so you might not want to remove all of that." She twiddled her fingers nervously as she waited for Sherlock's furious response. He merely shrugged and began striping off the disguise anyway.

"I'll reapply it then. It is far too uncomfortable to leave on if it is unnecessary." He tucked the wig into a drawer and moved onto the full head covering.

"So… you're not upset?"

"No, why should I be? We agreed to this. I'm to act as though I am seeing you romantically, dinners are a part of such a façade."

"Oh." Layla sank back onto the bed and blinked in surprise, he was back to normal and yet being agreeable. _He must be really please with himself for discovering that Darren is a fuckhead._ Layla returned to the more pressing matter. "So, what's going on with Darren, how did you find this out?"

Sherlock explained his research and discoveries therein before moving on to relate his stalking that afternoon.

"In the changing room locker he crept away from, I found what is pictured there. After he left, another man retrieved the materials and left several American, expired, restaurant vouchers, undoubtedly a receipt or just what it seems, a voucher for payment for his services."

"I can't believe he's betraying the government. He always seemed like such a preppy guy, went to country clubs and stuff, I would never have pegged him as someone who would leak information to terrorist groups." She fell back on the bed and entwined her hands in her hair. She was overwhelmed by all the new information that was skittering around in her head.

"Well, it seems he is. There's, just from that snippet, going to be at least two weapons exchanges. One in a tiny town in Ohio, Tiro, where from the note, 'Tiro, cash' it appears there is to be a pick up for money and another in Heron, Belgium of all places, for medical supplies." Sherlock finished wiping away the glue's residue and then returned to Layla's computer.

"UGH! This is incredible. I had worked out that the refrain was being used to designate certain words in the sequence but not that those words were ANAGRAMS! This is an insanely sophisticated syndicate."

"Yes!" Sherlock whipped around from her computer after a few minutes of intense clicking. "It's as I feared. The network Kellen is leaking to had an agent here in London, a sort of middle man, for a while. This crime ring in America was, at one point, in communication with Moriarty. Of course, he had webs extending everywhere; that explains the sophistication of the communication."

"What?" Layla sat up slowly and squinted at Sherlock. He had been absolutely obsessed with finding people in association with Moriarty after their dual 'suicides' and Layla had begun to think Sherlock was making up some of these connections.

"This terrorist cell, New Freedom, they're called, had a man here, one Brian Meyers, who received the messages from Moriarty and transmitted them back to America. He was one of the firsts I apprehended after the Fall, before you found me." Sherlock stood and began pacing the length of the flat. "They must have carried out the arrangement of this contract before Moriarty came after me but the goods weren't to be delivered for several months. Yes obviously. Otherwise a cipher wouldn't be necessary, Moriarty's network could have dispersed the information but since now, without him as the hub of information, the various independent cells, each providing their own services, are forced to use coded wide-reaching messages to arrange their exchanges. There is little chance Moriarty introduced them to one another, he enjoyed the competition for his attentions."

Sherlock was becoming excited but Layla concerned. The last thing she wanted was to lose Sherlock again, this time potentially for good.

"Oh alright, don't get too worked up about this. Before you go on this mission to destroy all evil like some avenging angel remember that we have a date tonight." Sherlock wheeled around on her and inspected her closely, eyes darting across her face frenetically. "Woah! What did I do now? Breathe too loudly?" She held her hands up beside her head in submission and Sherlock withdrew, evidently appeased by whatever he observed.

"At what time?" He sounded bored.

"I told John eight."

"Excellent. I have time." He grabbed a ratty trench coat he kept hidden beneath Layla's bed and leapt through the window leaving Layla to stare after him dumbfounded.

"Time for what?" The apartment held no answer. Sherlock, however, did when he dropped back in through the window a few hours later.

"What's going on?" Layla hopped up from the bed and switched off the television as Sherlock rushed back to the bathroom to begin reapplying the prosthetics.

"Homeless network."

"Okay, what about it?"

"I've arranged for them to mug Darren tomorrow and scatter the research, if it's known to the public Mycroft will find out and the entire system will be useless. Also, they'll attack him within range of one of the CCTV cameras so all you have to do is suggest to Mycroft that he check to see where the papers first appeared and he will find Darren to be the source."

"Nifty." Layla stood behind Sherlock watching him transform from one person to another but then had to walk away, it was too unnerving. "Um, you don't have any suits anymore do you? We're going to a pretty nice place." She stepped into one of her cocktail dresses and peeked around at Sherlock who now looked absolutely like Colin.

"Of course I have suits still. They're just not _my_ suits." He strode past her and pried up one of her floor boards revealing even more clothes that he had stashed.

"Dear lord, how much clothing do you have?" She peered over his shoulder as he sorted through the garment bags and finally selected one. She chose not to think about how he had made that hole in her floor.

"Enough." He unzipped the bag and pulled out a fairly nice three piece suit. Not his normal style and certainly not up to his former quality but nice enough to suit an academic. In fact, the cut looked very professorial.

"That's perfect." Layla grinned as she pictured Sherlock, not as Colin, in the role of a professor. Maybe they could try that later, if he would agree to it. She still hadn't been able to convince him that her as a teacher would be interesting but maybe he would respond better if he was the one in control. _Mmmm _Professor_ Holmes. I'm sorry sir but I didn't do my homework_.

"Why are you grinning like that?" Sherlock was still holding the suit untouched and watching her instead.

"Me? Oh, uh, no reason." Layla spun around to hide the vicious blush rushing across her face and chest. "So are you sure you're ready to interact with John? It's kind of a big deal." She tinkered with her hair in her wardrobe mirror but was really watching Sherlock's reaction in the reflection. He hardly responded.

"I don't anticipate any issues." He stripped off his clothing and stepped into the spitting image of a researcher out to dinner. Layla continued wishing that he would dress that way without the Colin disguise, be Professor Holmes instead.


	5. Dear Mr Fantasy

"You're wearing that expression again. Do you find this face particularly stimulating?" Layla shook her head mostly free of the Professor Holmes fantasy that was playing out in vivid detail before her mind's eye and looked up at Sherlock innocently.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She didn't have the energy to try to explain the intricacies of her brain at the moment so she played dumb. She should have known better.

"You're pupils are dilated and vacant, your cheeks flushed and you've stopped chattering or even moving. You're aroused." He buttoned the suit jacket over the vest he had just finished fastening and straightened the tie, which he hated, in the mirror.

"Nuh-uh." Layla smacked herself as the childish sounds of denial fell from her mouth. Sherlock turned and gazed at her patronizingly.

"Is that the entirety of your rebuttal? Nuh-uh?"

"Uh—I'm not aroused. Well, not by the face. It's… the outfit." She stared down at her toes and bit her lip. Sherlock scoffed and turned back to the mirror.

"This suit? What could possibly be arousing about so plebian an example of tailoring and—"

"It's not the quality, it's the style."

"The style is non-existent."

"You look like a professor in it."

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds as he considered the implications of Layla's statement.

"You are stimulated by the idea of me giving lectures."

"No—well not that exactly, more like, you know—"

"No, I do not. Enlighten me." Sherlock stepped closer to Layla and gazed down at her with the utmost attention. She really wished he wasn't wearing the mask now.

"Well, the idea of you, um, of you being in control… in an intellectual setting and… oh screw it, I like the idea of you disciplining me for not doing my homework. Primarily by fucking me on a desk. But giving instructions is good too. Oh and a tweed jacket…" Layla ran her tongue over her lips and wrung her hands as the mere thought of those things sent little shivers of desire through her.

"I have no problem being in control," Sherlock took another step towards Layla backing her into the door, she drew a shuddering breath but held her cool. He had the prosthetics on and wasn't nearly as appealing as he should've been in that moment. "—and as for an intellectual setting, I am more than equipped to—" The door behind Layla rattle with a short series of knocks and the two of them leapt away from it in surprise.

"I have a delivery here for Dr. Layla McManis." Sherlock nodded towards the door and Layla, though completely baffled, straightened her dress and answered the door.

"Hi, yes, this is she." Layla looked at the massive box the courier had set in front of her door and then back at the clipboard held out to her. "Um, Colin could you—" Sherlock stepped around her and lifted the box carefully out of the hallway and carried it to her kitchen counter.

"There you go, thanks." She handed back the signed delivery notice and smiled cordially.

"Good evening, miss." The front door clicked behind the delivery man and Layla slowly shut her own before turning around to inspect the package.

"Do I want to know?" She approached Sherlock as he began dismantling the box. It was riddled with holes evenly dispersed, presumably as breathing vents since 'Live cargo' was written all across the sides.

"It isn't disturbing if that's what you're wondering." Sherlock stepped back to reveal a large terrarium housing what looked to Layla to be a tiny naked kangaroo.

"What in the world is that?" She pressed her face up to the glass and peered at the animal inside. "And why is it in my house?"

"It's a rabbit, obviously." Sherlock removed the covering and lifted the tiny creature out.

"Why is it naked?" Layla extended her hands and cupped the bunny in her palms. Despite being furless it was incredibly cute.

"Because I needed it to be."

"What?"

"It has a genetic condition wherein it is naturally hairless. I needed a test subject without hair whose skin I could observe—what are you doing?" Sherlock's look of bewildered disgust shone through even the layers of prosthetics.

"Oh, no," Layla was clasping the tiny innocent animal to her chest and shaking her head. She knew Sherlock and he wasn't always the most humane individual when it came to gathering evidence. "—you are not going to harm this precious little thing."

"I never said I was going to cause it any permanent damage…"

"Don't you worry Fluffy, Layla won't let the big, mean Sherlock do anything to you." She nuzzled the bunny's ears with her nose and crooned soothingly as she placed it back in the terrarium.

"No, don't name the test animal."

"I already said that you're not experimenting on that rabbit, Sherlock." She crossed her arms and stared up at Sherlock as he appraised her carefully.

"I purchased the animal explicitly in order to—"

"I said no." Layla lifted the hutch and carried it over to the empty corner beside her bed. "Congratulations, you just bought your first gift for me. Thanks, Sherlock, I love it!" She wiped her hands together with finality and moved away from the rabbit and towards her computer. "Now, I just need to find out how to take care of Fluffy, what do you think he eats? Some sort of rabbit pellets?" She leant over her computer and typed 'Rabbit feed' in the search bar.

"I _will_ be using the rabbit for testing." Sherlock spoke quietly in her ear. Layla hadn't noticed him approach, not that she ever could. He was stealthy in all his movements.

"Uh… no." Layla tried to turn around to face him but instead found herself pressed against the edge of her desk, the wood biting into her thigh. She lost her balance and fell forward onto her hands which left her bottom exposed and prominently presented.

"I think you'll find, Layla, that you won't be able to stop me." Sherlock flipped her dress up and over her ass. She shivered at the tone of his voice and the cold air dancing around her nether regions.

"Sherlock…" Words became more difficult to formulate as Sherlock stepped between her feet and spread her thighs apart with one knee.

"You did say _over a desk_ did you not?" His cool fingers slipped beneath her panties and moved them slowly down and over her backside.

"Yes… sir." Layla barely whispered her response as she listened expectantly to the clanging and rustling of Sherlock's trousers being removed.

"Now, I'm going to teach you a lesson about rabbits." The chill of his fingers reappeared, this time in between her thighs, teasing her with its fleeting sensations as he pressed hotly against her cheeks. He was still uncovered, condom-less and eager as he softly grinded against the soft skin of her bum.

Layla bit her lip but tried desperately to compose an argument against her new Fluffy becoming Sherlock's guinea pig in whatever strange experiment he was conducting. This was of course made very difficult by the acting out of her fantasy. Sherlock was manipulating her again.

Another set of knocks sounded at her door and Layla yelped in surprise.

"Layla! Layla, it's nearly time. Let's call a cab." John's voice sounded muffled through the panel of the door but it was pretty clear that he was peeved at something. Sherlock sighed and stepped away from Layla, allowing her to collect her underwear and compose herself. She looked at Sherlock's re-clothed groin and cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Give me six seconds." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply while Layla set to straightening her mussed hair. In the allotted six seconds both had hidden the evidence of their sexually charged negotiations and were ready to leave.

"Okay, let's go. This is Colin." Layla opened the door with a flourish and an enormous smile, both efforts to disguise the fact that her heart was still fluttering and her panties wet.

"Hi, good to meet you. Colin Bellamy." Sherlock extended his hand, now in a glove, to John and smiled heartily.

"Oh, didn't expect you here yet, nice to meet you I'm John, John Watson." He gave Layla a quick reproving glance and then nodded shortly. "Let's be off then."

"You two go on and grab a taxi, I'll be right out, I need to grab my check book." Layla ushered the men out of her door way and scampered back to her desk while still trying to hear their conversation.

"So what do you do, Colin?" John was being cordial but he didn't sound especially interested.

"I'm a researcher at King's College. Physical chemistry, specifically."

"Complicated stuff that. Working on anything interesting?"

"Yeah, for now we're looking at bonding in—" The front door shut and excluded Layla from their chat as she frantically overturned her desk to find the checks. She was basically pleased with Colin-Sherlock so far, he was still a bit stiff socially but she supposed that an academic could always get away with being eccentric.

"Ah there you are you little bugger!" She stuffed the retrieved booklet into her purse and bolted out the door. "Hey guys! So is Mary meeting us there or are we waiting, oh. Never mind." Layla strode up between the former flat mates and spotted Mary across the street gliding down the sidewalk. She looked so graceful, Layla made a mental note to ask Mary how it was that she didn't look like a three-legged elephant on tranquilizers when she walked in high heels. The boys weren't speaking anymore, both had their eyes trained on Mary. Layla noticed Sherlock's were glinting with interest, not normal sexual or friendly intrigue but something more devious. He had observed something and was selfishly glorying in it. Layla discreetly elbowed him and then waved at Mary.

"Hello Mary!"

"Good evening, Layla dear. That dress is fabulous." Mary stepped onto the curb and gave Layla a quick hug. "Hi, I'm Mary Morstan, it's a pleasure to meet you." Mary daintily held out her hand to Sherlock and beamed expectantly up at him for a reciprocal introduction. Layla was seriously concerned for half a second that Sherlock wouldn't respond with a 'hello' or a 'nice to meet you' but with a string of deductions about Mary's dark past. They were, however, empty fears.

"Delighted." Sherlock shook Mary's hand firmly and grinned. "I'm Colin Bellamy." His act was almost too good to be true, genuine-seeming smile and convincing accent all directed towards someone Layla had been pretty sure he would despise. She checked the time, it was a quarter until eight, Layla bet herself that Sherlock would be a miserable wretch before the clock struck eight-thirty, if not sooner.

As Sherlock began to easily engage Mary in conversation Layla glanced over to evaluate John's reaction. It was not good. He was certainly grumpy today and Layla still hadn't figured out why, so she decided to distract him from whatever it was.

"Alright then, all introductions made, let's get some food!" Layla waved urgently at the next four passing taxis but to no avail, she was invisible.

"It's fine, Layla. I already ordered one." John pulled her away from the curb and restrained her frantic arms.

"Oh, swell." Layla stepped back between the two men and looked at each in turn. Sherlock was still speaking animatedly with Mary; Layla thought she heard something like he had been schooled at home as well. Since he was coping so well she directed her attention to the scowling doctor beside her.

"So, how's it going today, John? You seem… preoccupied." Layla cringed as a cascade of tinkling laughter from Mary deepened John's frown.

"M'fine. Just fine, Layla thanks." He folded his hands before him and turned to face the street entirely blocking both Layla from direct conversation and his vision of Mary and 'Colin.'

"So where're we headed?" Sherlock turned back to Layla and John as his conversation with Mary ended. "I'm famished, hope it's close." He laid and arm around Layla's shoulder and smiled happily down at her. Whatever he had discovered from his chat with Mary it was making him far too happy.

"Cab's here." John barked shortly and gestured for the ladies to get in first. Layla slid down the seat and positioned herself across from Mary with Sherlock sitting beside her and John by Mary. The first half of the cab ride was mostly filled with Mary's animated discussion of the children she tutored, a topic which was equally boring and relieving for Layla. At least while Mary was filling 'air-time' she didn't need to play referee for the inevitable slip in Sherlock's character.

"So," Mary took a breath and turned to Sherlock, "I didn't catch it before. What is it that you do, Colin?" Sherlock turned with the most distinct look of self-contentment and began to open his mouth but Layla, catching the irritated roll of John's eyes, quickly intervened.

"He's a researcher in physical chemistry at King's. Not really much to tell. But you, you on the other hand, you have so many stories let's hear your stories." Layla nodded encouragingly and made a point to avoid Sherlock's eye and well as John's. The latter proved more difficult as he continued frowning at Layla for several minutes following. In fact she didn't escape his gaze until the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the restaurant.

"Layla. Oh, you two go on in, the reservation's under Watson. I just need to ask Layla a question." Sherlock and Mary moved on inside and John grabbed Layla's wrist as she tried to escape.

"Woah. What's his story? Layla, he's too nice." John met Layla with a sincere look of consternation and it took all her willpower to keep from bursting into giggles at the irony.

"Oh, you know, he's Irish…" She chuckled nervously and ran a hand through her hair. "I think the real problem, tonight, is what's your story, John? You've been irritable all evening." Layla laid a hand on John's arm and then turned to walk to the restaurant with hopes that she had evaded answering the probing question.

"Did you just answer my question with a question?" John followed her inside and through the restaurant.

She grinned half-heartedly and shrugged as they approached the table and sat down, Layla beside Sherlock again and John next to Mary.

"We decided to ask for a bottle of wine, I hope that's alright with you two." Mary's sing song voice piped up to break the strained silence that John's disgruntled presence had created.

"Sure, that's great Mary." John and Layla muttered their approval together and the table fell silent again.

"So, Layla tells me that you're an ex-army doctor. Did you serve abroad?" Sherlock broke the tension this time, his musical lilt somewhat out of place with the atmosphere of the dinner.

"Yep. Afghanistan. Not great but it's over now." John kept his eyes on the menu in front of him and responded with very little enthusiasm.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you still working as a doctor?" Sherlock was trying to make up for the discomfort he felt between himself and John, or rather, he was acting like that's what Colin was doing.

"Yes. In a practice downtown, not terribly exciting but it pays the bills." John still didn't look up from the menu and gave only the barest of answers. Layla pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to will away the stress headache that was building there. She hoped that maybe with food the mood would pick up.

Unfortunately, she was to be disappointed. Sherlock continued to be the perfect social butterfly, making conversation when their individual discussions ended and, in proportion, John's mood continued souring. Layla couldn't believe it, but she was becoming more concerned that John would ruin their night out rather than Sherlock.

"Mmm, this crème brulee is brilliant. Here, have some Layla." Sherlock offered his fork to Layla and sealed the bite with a kiss. She nearly choked on the dessert as her brain tried to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was eating, sharing that food he was eating and even kissing her in public. He was certainly devoted to this role. John had a similar reaction as he quietly finished his main course. Layla caught his eye glowering at the two of them. Mary on the other hand was coolly enjoying her fruit plate and chattering about the unseasonable warmth.

"Oh!" The entire table looked up as Layla jumped in surprise. She had been startled by Sherlock's hand coming to rest on her thigh beneath the table. John gave them a questioning frown and Mary tittered at the awkward moment as Sherlock removed his hands to the table. Layla found herself wondering if she in fact would spill the beans.

When they had all finished their meals and the conversation had waxed stale the two men fell into an uncomfortable impasse. Neither would yield to not footing the bill.

"It's fine Dr Watson, I can pay for this one."

"Uh, no. I don't think so _Dr Bellamy_, I've got it."

They both stared unwavering at the other pulling on the check case, Sherlock smiling and John not.

"Oh, you men." Mary giggled and patted John on the shoulder. "John, why don't you pay the gratuity _or_ the primary bill and let Colin here cover the other half.

"An excellent solution!" Sherlock wrenched the bill from John's grasp and placed his brand new 'Colin Bellamy' card in it. John exhaled loudly but set some cash out on the table.

Mary yawned and arranged her hair once the check had been collected. "I'm going to turn in early tonight, don't you think you should as well, John?" She turned from the table and led the party out the front door of the restaurant.

"Yeah, I'll walk you home." John marched behind Mary and responded resignedly.

"Bye Layla! It was lovely to meet you Colin! We should all do this again sometime!" Mary waved back over John who just held a silent hand up in salute.

"Night!" Layla called back to Mary as she stepped towards the approaching taxi and stooped down to slide onto the back seat.

"What in blue blazes has gotten into you Mr. Grins and Giggles?" Layla peered up at Sherlock, his face now impassive through the mask.

"John and Mary have been at odds." He dropped his accent and spoke again with Sherlock's precision and detachment.

"Oh really? And what makes you think that?" Sherlock pursed his lips and turned to look at Layla. She returned his gaze with wide, waiting eyes. "Oh, go on, explain it."

"You didn't notice? Then what were you possibly brooding over for the entire meal?" He shook his head at the apparent illogicality.

"Oh, I noticed that John was upset but I didn't think that they were fighting, honestly I figured that John was jealous of you." Sherlock scoffed and pulled out his phone.

"Perhaps, but that was not the primary issue. He was, after all, already frustrated when he came to collect you. No, they've been fighting and probably still are. They were forced to sit beside one another and they leaned apart the entire meal. There were other physical signs: John's eyebrows were knitted and deeply so, as though he's been frowning for hours on end. Mary too showed evidence of the conflict, touched up eye make-up revealed that she had been crying as did the used tissues in her purse. In their conversation too I could see it. John hardly spoke the entire evening, he concerned himself with the food and the barest of responses to direct questions. Mary, on the other hand, controlled the conversation using John's name often and pointedly, a sign of studied formality and influence. There is also their decision to leave together which was, in the end, not a decision of John's at all. Mary has done something that John does not approve of, my guess is something to do with her employer considering John's propensity for jealousy tonight, and instead of compromising their views, John has collapsed before Mary's wishes and resents it. It's brilliant." Sherlock clasped his hands together happily as the cab came to stop. Layla stared at him in shock.

"What?" Sherlock's face fell, he clearly didn't understand that his delight as his friend's unhappiness was wrong.

"Oh, you're impossible." Layla threw open the cab door and stomped up to her front door leaving Sherlock to pay the fare. "I cannot believe you can get off on your best friend being made unhappy. That's terrible." She wheeled around on him after stepping up on the stoop so that she could look him in the eye with all her moral superiority.

Sherlock, however, was not paying attention. He looked to the door and sniffed. Layla rolled her eyes and turned back to open the door.

"Layla, is that you dear?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came floating through the entrance hall as Layla stepped inside.

"Yeah it's me Mrs. Hudson. I've got my check book on me right now, just hold on."

"Oh no, it's not that," the little land lady opened her door wide and stepped aside, "you have a package, and a visitor."

Layla looked up from her purse to accept the parcel and peer past Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh holy god, Alex. Um, Alex this is—" Layla gasped and turned her head to introduce Sherlock but he was already gone. Wandering off who knows where as soon as Mrs. Hudson called Layla's name. "—a lovely surprise." She forced a grin and let the front door shut behind her.

"Hi Layla! Surprise! I got, like, half a month off of work so I came to see you!" Layla's tiny best friend darted out from behind Mrs. Hudson and clasp Layla in a surprisingly forceful hug. Her phone buzzed in her hand and Layla glanced down to read Sherlock's message while Mrs. Hudson happily bustled around the foyer. _Don't open the package._

"Mmhm, I was watching my programmes and I heard a buzz in your apartment and when you didn't answer, I did. Found this lovely thing outside waiting excitedly for you so I called her in for nibbles. She's been here for an hour or so." Mrs. Hudson smiled happily at Alex, it seemed the two of them had hit it off, not that that was surprising. Alex hardly ever met a person whom she didn't charm immediately. Layla narrowed her eyes at the parcel in her hand and then returned to trying to take in what was happening before her.

"Well, thanks for taking care of her Mrs. Hudson. Here," Layla handed her rent over to the elderly lady and popped into her sitting room to help retrieve Alex's absurd number of bags. "goodness, how long are you staying?"

"Just a week or so but you know me, I always over pack." The tiny brunette stooped over to collect the bags that Layla couldn't and they trudged to Layla's door together.

"Okay, the place is a wreck. Just warning you." Layla turned the key and kicked the door open with her knee only to drop all the bags immediately.

"Glad to see you're feeling well, Layla." The lights were on and Mycroft was seated serenely at her desk.

"Sweet baby Jesus." Layla breathed in shock, and she had thought Alex would be the biggest surprise of the day.

"I assume your filling was an easy fix." Mycroft swung the umbrella that constantly hung off his arm off of his lap and onto the floor using it to hoist himself gracefully from her swiveling chair.

"Uh—yeah. Smooth like silk, nice solid filling again." Layla patted her cheek and leaned over to pick Alex's bags back up.

"Mmm." Mycroft glanced around Layla to take note of her enthusiastic friend straining to see inside the apartment behind her. "Where did you go? I've yet to find a practice I would patronize again." He smiled serenely but with obvious aloofness down at Layla and waited for her to cover her ass.

"Oh the place that John recommended, somewhere north of here."

"Oh, Dr. Watson. It's interesting, when I spoke with him earlier this afternoon he mentioned that he hadn't seen you today but was planning on going to dinner with you at eight. Did that go well? Did the filling hold?" His grin became more sneer-like as Layla scrambled for a response.

"Uh, yeah. Um. I did, but—oh fine! I cut out of work to avoid Darren because I hate him and everything he does." Layla hoisted Alex's bags onto her bed and turned with exasperation towards Mycroft.

"Yes, well, I must admit I understand the sentiment." He nodded and hooked his umbrella on his arm. "Next time do not try lying to me, Layla. It's offensive. I will always find out." Mycroft inclined a chiding eyebrow towards Layla and then strode past her and paused at the door. "Interesting choice in companion animal." He pointed with his umbrella to Fluffy's hutch. "Goodnight Layla. Good to meet you Ms. Fairwaters." The door closed behind him with a gentle click and Layla breathed a sigh of relief. That could've gone so much worse. Not that it went _well_, he saw right through her lie and he had been in her apartment for a while so had probably noticed _everything_ else, like her having a bedmate.

"Who was _that_?" Layla set down the mysterious parcel she was holding and glanced up at Alex to assess the reason for the excitement in her voice.

"Oh, don't start." Layla knew her friend, she would flirt with anything that exhibited authority, she had definite daddy-issues. "That's Mycroft, the elder Holmes and my boss, clearly."

"Oooo."

"I said don't start."

"But how did he know my name?"

"He's Mycroft, he's the British government, he's just knows things."

"Ooooooooo." Alex's eyes were as wide as saucers and as excited as a kid's at Disney World. "Is he… single?" Layla turned to find her friend a quarter of an inch away from her face and positively enthralled.

"Oh lord, who knows? He's so private and aloof, he could actually be a woman and it wouldn't surprise me anymore than him being single. All I know is that he has a serious relationship with that umbrella of his, I've _never_ seen him without it. Nonetheless, he's no interest of yours so forget about him. Besides he's in his mid-forties. Just no. Okay?" Alex grinned impishly and then skipped over to investigate Fluffy.

"Does he always talk like that?" Less fanatic but still excited, Alex's voice floated across the apartment from the corner.

"Talk like what? If you say sexy or anything that has a sexual nuance I'm going to let Fluffy maul you." Layla continued staring at the package that Sherlock undoubtedly had ordered and had addressed to her, _why can't I open it?_ Alex giggled and lifted the tiny rabbit from its hutch.

"British-y."

"Um. Yeah. He's British, Alex, you doof." Layla tucked the package beneath her bed to keep her from being tempted and picked up her phone which had just buzzed with a message.

"No, like British with that something—what is it? Pizzazz? He just sounds like he can get stuff done." Alex's smile wilted when Layla grumpily took Fluffy from her embrace. "What? It's—"

"Just stop." Layla stalked over to the rabbit's hutch and gently placed him back inside before turning back to the message: _Upstairs. I know you have a key._

"What if I just—"

"No."

"Okay, you're not hearing me out. I just want to introduce myself and get to know him and—"

"No."

"This is a totally innocent—"

"No. No. And for good measure no." Alex shut her mouth in a huff and crossed her arms over her chest.

"You're no fun."

"You're a libido driven vixen."

"That's not fair Mr. I-slept-with-both-my-upstairs-neighbors-within-a-month-of-knowing-them." Alex cringed when she realized she had brought up Sherlock inadvertently but Layla didn't react to it.

"Yeah, I learned of the allure of the accent and I'm saving you from its enchanting charm." Layla quickly typed out a response and tossed her phone on the bed. She had Alex here, she couldn't just go upstairs to meet Sherlock.

"But I wanna experience the spell." Alex had stooped to the level of whining. "Can't I just have lunch with him or something?"

"Does lunch mean sex?"

"Not necessarily."

Layla snorted and shook her head at her friend. "You can do whatever you want, Alex. I certainly can't stop you. I just don't think you'll like the result." Layla's phone alerted her to Sherlock's growing impatience: _Make an excuse. This is important._

"I'm going to do it. I will seduce Mycroft Holmes. What'cha doin'?" Alex plopped down next to Layla on the bed and leaned towards her phone.

"Texting."

"Yeah, I can see that. Who with?"

"Whom."

"What?"

"Whom. It's an object. 'Who' is only correct as the subject." Layla turned her phone from her friend's prying eyes and typed out a response: _Give me some time._

"Okay, thanks grammar police. Good to see you haven't changed. So _whom_ are you texting?"

"This guy I just met—" Sherlock's response bleeped onto her screen: _Two minutes._ Layla frowned at the text and pondered over how to excuse herself.

"What's wrong, Layla?"

"Oh. Nothing, it's just he's being silly. Boys." She waved her hand dismissively and tucked her phone into her purse.

"What's he like? Oo oo! When do I get to meet Dr. Watson?" Alex was bouncing on her toes in excitement.

"He's… Irish. And John's away tonight but maybe tomorrow." She stood from her bed and stepped slowly towards the door.

"Irish. Nice. What's he like in bed? Is he ginger?"

"Alex, I'm going to have to leave you here for a few minutes, I'll be right back though, okay?" She stepped out into the hallway and sprinted up the stairs_._


	6. Immigrant Song

Layla hustled up the stairs and unlocked the door to find Sherlock as Sherlock, not as Colin, sitting in his old arm chair. The sight was jarring; she hesitated stuttering in her steps over the threshold for a second.

"Okay, what is it? I'm breaking the laws of the spare key and really, the rules of hospitality to be up here, Sherlock. So… uh, what's going on?" Layla nervously glanced around the flat and continued lingering in the door way. Sherlock, however, seemed totally at ease and looked up from the book he was reading to glare icily at Layla. She shivered, it was like seeing a ghost. If it weren't for the quality of his suit and the length and color of his hair, Layla would've sworn she had stepped back in time.

"What is it? Why are you just standing there?" He narrowed his eyes at Layla and tilted his head to the side. "Have you actually ceased thinking?"Layla blinked a few times and cleared her throat. Sherlock was real and sitting in front of her, just not _that_ Sherlock. "Where's my parcel?"

Layla chuckled and sighed. She should have known; of course he wanted something self-serving, it wasn't actually important.

"It's downstairs, Sherlock, and as far as I'm concerned, it's my package, it's addressed to me. You're dead, you don't get mail." Layla turned around to head back downstairs.

"I need it." Layla stopped and turned back towards Sherlock.

"Well… you can get it when you come back. I don't know how long Alex is going to be staying here, but I'm sure at some point she'll step out. Then you can come get it. Speaking of, she's downstairs waiting for me, and she just flew half way around the world to see me, so yeah." Layla wanted to leave, to see her friend. She really did. But one question was still bothering her. "By the way," she took a step further inside, "where's your face?"

"My face?" Sherlock wrinkled his brow and recoiled in confusion. "Where's my face? It's on my—ah." He exhaled impatiently and snapped his book shut. "My _mask_ is hidden, elsewhere. I can retrieve it tomorrow." He stood from the chair and approached Layla. "We're not finished with our discussion."

"Uh, I thought we were. Not much else to say, I'm not your mail person so you're not getting that parcel tonight. If you're talking about before, John and Mary had a fight. You're an ass for finding it amusing. That is all." Layla turned one final time to leave.

"I meant about the rabbit." Layla's stomach clenched. _Of course, the lesson about rabbits_.

"Yes, well, we'll have plenty of opportunities to hash that out later. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"I'll be waiting." Layla twisted her head around to find Sherlock casually leaning against the door jamb and watching her descend the stairs, in full view of anyone who entered the premises.

"Is that a good idea?" Layla hissed back up at him and waved her hands frantically towards the apartment.

"I don't see how it couldn't be." Sherlock dismissed her concern with a shrug and continued in barely hushed tones. "Your eagerness for such an event is evident in the flush across your chest and I have little else to divert myself."

"But, um, waiting here? In your old apartment, what if someone sees?" Sherlock strode back to the table housing John's laptop and sat down. Layla moved up a few stairs and peered up at him.

"Oh, no one will be around this evening, that is for certain. No need to be concerned about John returning to find me."

"How would you—oh. You followed him, didn't you?"

"Mmm. He's now… otherwise engaged."

"Then I assume they are no longer fighting." Layla smiled to herself and watched Sherlock successfully hack into John's computer.

"Indeed." His widened his eyes with judgmental disgust. Layla enjoyed the irony for a second and then tottered down the rest of the stairs.

"I'll be up when she's asleep." Her whisper floated up to a smirking Sherlock. He hadn't needed the response to know that Layla would still come when he beckoned.

Layla found Alex sitting on the bed playing with Fluffy. The tiny rabbit was busy hopping around while Alex attempted to keep it from leaping off the bed. She had been busy, her face was washed and makeup removed and she had changed into her pyjamas. And for good reason too, Layla noticed that her friend looked more than exhausted. She had, after all just flown from California and that was one hell of a travel day.

"You know, this is possibly the cutest thing I've ever seen." She gathered the squirming bunny up into her chest and patted it between the ears. "Why in the world do you have a naked rabbit though?"

"Gift." Layla slid off her shoes and set to changing as well. "From the new guy." She added for good measure.

"Well that's an excellent gift from a man you have only just met! Speaking of, what was that about? Everything alright?" She set the rabbit down and let him hop towards the edge before scooping him up again.

"Yeah, just needed to give him a call." Layla giggled her phone as 'proof' and then took her change of clothes into the bathroom. "It's all good now."

"That's nice, although I'd like to know a bit more about him."

Layla was glad she was in the bathroom and Alex couldn't read her face. She in no way wanted to tell Alex a long complicated lie about Sherlock, or Colin rather, and she also did _not_ want to introduce him to her.

"Maybe some other time," she stepped out of the bathroom and extended her arms, "for now, I think I need a hug!" Alex giggled and leapt off the bed. "A good proper hug now that I'm not all distracted. I can't believe you flew all the way here to see me!"

"Yeah, I regret not warning you now. You have no food worth eating." She smiled with a wink and quickly rescued Fluffy from another jump off the edge of the bed. Layla grimaced and scampered over to the kitchen. Sure enough, she hardly had any food in her refrigerator. With all the dinners out lately she hadn't noticed that Sherlock had eaten all her groceries at some point during the week.

"Oh man. Yeah, I've been going out to dinner this week, sorry."

"It's cool. I just really could've used some of your chicken salad that you always make. Or ice cream, not that you make that." Alex was now on the floor with the bunny watching him nibble on a carrot. "I did find this carrot for your rabbit. What's his name?"

"Fluffy."

Alex snorted and shook her head.

"I've missed your sense of humor."

"Oh come on. It was begging to be done. Here," Layla joined Alex on the ground with a bowl of cereal, "I know you like the Lucky Charms and Henry brought these for me some time ago as part of his multi-part apology series."

"He still feeling bad about the—the whole thing?" Alex gladly accepted the bowl and looked closely at her friend. She hadn't explicitly mentioned Sherlock but she wanted to gauge Layla's reaction to this question to see whether or not she could straight up ask her about him. She was surprised by her friend's response.

"Damn straight he was, and he should be. Sneaky twit that he is."

"So, are you okay? It's been a couple months since you moved back, have you found being here manageable? Even though, you know, you're so close to the memories."

"Yeah, I guess. It gets difficult sometimes but I'm fine. Let's not talk about it though, sorry I just don't like too." Layla stirred her cereal aimlessly and, ignoring the pangs of guilt, didn't meet her friend's kind gaze. She hated not telling Alex the truth. "Anyway, what would you like to do? You're probably wiped but we can put in a movie or just chat, whatever. I only have an air mattress, sorry. Haven't gotten around to really furnishing this place, not that there's any room, but yeah. I hope that's okay." Layla stood and retrieved the inflatable mattress from beneath her bed. Unfortunately Sherlock's ratty coat slid out with it and she almost had a stroke trying to shove it back without Alex noticing. She had no reason to, Alex was carefully watching Fluffy again. Probably trying to decode Layla's veiled response.

"No, that's fine. I'm only staying here tonight anyway. I got a hotel room for the rest of the time, I didn't want to impose too much, especially since I was coming unannounced." She munched on her cereal and gave a huge yawn. "Boy am I glad you have that mattress too, I'm so tired."

Layla fought the urge to fist pump the air, she was more than relieved that Alex had gotten a room. This way Sherlock could come back without living rough or whatever he was planning on and Layla didn't need to worry about introducing him to Alex when he did. She pushed the relief aside and put on a disappointed face.

"Oh, that's too bad, but probably better for your back!" Pressing the inflating button, Layla leapt across the room to save Fluffy from a fear-deranged attempt to rocket into a solid wall. "Woah there little man, no suicide efforts. Back in the hutch." When Layla turned back to Alex she caught her watching her sadly, a tiny frown tarnishing her normally sunny features.

"I'm sorry, Layla."

"Oh, I'm fine, that was an unfortunate coincidence. I'm not lingering. It's fine. I just really don't want Fluffy here accidently getting hurt because the mattress air pump sounds like a descending army of doom to his poor sensitive ears."

"If you say so." Alex was clearly unconvinced and Layla silently berated herself for her poor choice of words. _Now she'll be watching me for psychological scarring. Great._

"Moving on, what are things like at home, huh? Any news?" Layla retrieved some spare linens from her bathroom cupboard and busied herself with those.

"Yes actually, but I was sort of hoping that you would have some alcohol in you when I got around to it." Layla stopped popping out the sheets to glare warily down at Alex.

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until tomorrow? It's late, I'm sleepy, you're not in the best frame of mind—"

"I'm in the perfect frame of mind. What is it?" Sheets forgotten Layla dropped onto her knees in front of Alex.

"Well, do you want the good news or the shitty news first?" Alex tapped the tips of her fingers together and winced under Layla's scrutiny.

"Just get to it."

"Okay, shitty news first it is. Your sister is getting married. I'm actually here partially by her request, to bring you back in two weeks time."

Layla stared with dead eyes back at Alex. This was not what she had been expecting.

"My nineteen year old baby sister is getting married in two weeks?"

"Yes ma'am. And she really wants you to come, she has a bridesmaid's dress all ready for you and everything." Alex chewed on a fingernail and waited for the screams of rage.

"Yeah, okay." Layla stood back up and went back to putting the linens on Alex's bed.

"So… you're coming back?"

"Yes."

"And you're not angry?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you're not angry or yes , you are angry?"

"Yes." Layla viciously smashed the inflated mattress into the corners of a fitted sheet but otherwise kept quiet.

"Oh good." Alex edged slowly back and tried to decide how best to deal with Layla's mounting temper. "So, you're angry. That's fair. She's really young and you're still single and—"

"I SAID I'M NOT ANGRY!" Layla's nostrils were flared and her teeth bared, she clearly was calm as ever.

"No, of course not. Sorry for assuming, heh." Alex held her hands up backed even further away.

"I don't care that she's getting married before me or that I'm all alone, I'm not petty, Alex. I just can't believe that she waited to tell me until literally two weeks beforehand. With our parents gone, I'm basically the only family she has and she mine, I would have like to know about this boy a touch sooner. Not only that but how in the world is she paying for this, and if you tell me she's spending our parent's savings I'm going to actually breathe fire." Layla's eyes snapped up and caught the look of nervous uncertainty on Alex's face.

"She's not exactly…"

"Alex..." Layla's voice was threateningly tense.

"Fire extinguisher any where nearby?"

"Frothing fuckhead! Blithering asshat! That little bitch! I'm going to destroy her. How much?"

"Huh?" Alex was in the kitchen now, making a show of cleaning up her cereal bowl.

"How much of their funds have been spent on the imbecilic excuse for fornication?"

"Please, they were sleeping together way—"

"Watch yourself Fairwaters you're getting dangerously close to flippant." Layla finished making the temporary pallet and stepped over it to address Alex more directly.

"Now, Layla, don't you want to hear some good news first?"

"Fine." Layla grumbled but lost some of her steam. Being furious was exhausting.

"Cecil found a lady friend. She'll be there, I mean, you'll meet her. She's British, I bet you'll like her." Alex smiled coaxingly but Layla glared down at her.

"Alex, just because a person is British doesn't mean I'm going to instantly like them, ugh, never mind. Is that all?"

"No… Janine is having a kid. I'm gonna be an aunt!"

"Oh, so she finally let your brother touch her. That's nice. For a while there I thought she had only married Charles for your family's money."

"Nope, they'll have a little girl in March. I'm so excited. Also, I brought you something that you left. I found it when I packed up to move out west." Alex skipped over to her bag and pulled out a DVD case. "Here you go, I figured you were probably missing it."

Layla looked down at the copy of _Moulin Rouge _she had, in fact, searched for in her first month of moving back.

"Thanks, you wanna watch it?" She resignedly took the movie and headed over to her television set. There was no reason to continue seething about Teresa getting married. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

"Sure!" Alex settled onto her bed and sighed with relief, hopefully the worst was over.

About half way through the film, Layla couldn't wait any longer.

"How much?"

Alex rubbed her eyes and sat up to get a better view of Layla. "How much of what?"

"How much of my parent's money? Don't worry, I'm not angry, I just want to know."

"All of it." Alex's voice was very small and she tried her best not to cower back into her bed as her friend soaked in the news. When Layla made no response, Alex decided her statement deserved some qualification. "Not all on the wedding though, about a quarter of it was spent to restore your family home. She and Doug are going to live there."

"That's nice." Layla stared unblinkingly at the TV screen and numbed her mind to the thought that her sister had spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars on a wedding. She would deal with her later.

"If you say so." Alex lay back down and was quickly asleep. Layla wasted little time making herself presentable or even checking to see how asleep Alex was. She simply switched off the television and tiptoed swiftly out of her apartment.

"Bad news, it seems. What was it?" Sherlock was sitting in practically the exact position he had been in when Layla had left him two hours before.

"Just shut up and take off your pants." Layla stomped over to Sherlock and shut the lid of John's laptop. Sherlock leaned back and folded his hands together on his lap as he inspected Layla.

"Your sister then. You finally found out that she's getting married." Layla's eyes bugged out of her skull as her shoulders collapsed in shock.

"Yes… how? How could you possibly know that?"

"It's been in your local news. Her fiancé is a local celebrity is he not?" Sherlock pulled the computer back up and flipped it around for Layla to see the news page.

"I have no clue who he—oh dear lord, she didn't." There was her sister, photographed in all her gorgeous glory, simpering alongside a uniformed baseball player. "Well, it seems she's bagged an athlete just like she always said she would. That bitch." She hissed and marched over to the kitchen, she didn't want to have Teresa's happy marriage taunting her right now.

"You're certainly taking it well." Sherlock sneered and shut the computer. "Then I'm assuming you also found out about the emptying of the bank account attached to your name."

"Yes, although how you know that I simply cannot fathom." Layla rubbed her hands over her face and rolled her shoulders. The news of her sister's exploits was giving her a headache. It seemed she couldn't get by a single day anymore without a stress headache.

"I memorized your social security number months ago. It's incredible what the United States government catalogues along that single identifier." Sherlock joined Layla in the kitchen, a studied eye trained on the vein in her forehead. "You need to calm down, Layla. Your blood pressure is far too high."

"I think I'll be the one deciding when my blood pressure is too high, Sherlock!" She snapped at him but immediately regretted it. Sherlock never responded well to her being emotional, especially not aggressively emotional.

"Why are you so incensed? I understand the bother of losing that mass amount of money but if you had been truly concerned about it you would have kept it monitored more closely. It isn't your sister's well being either, you have never even mentioned her to me before. This indicates that you two weren't close and perhaps even estranged. So what is it? Jealousy?" Sherlock lifted an inquiring eyebrow when Layla snapped her head up in fury. He had hit a nerve.

"Why does everyone assume that I'm jealous? I'm not jealous! I'm happy alone, and I'm especially not going to be envious of a stupid little girl entering into a marriage that will most likely fail!" She mashed her palms into her eyes and tried to ignore the pulsing of pain and pressure behind them. Suddenly she felt a cool hand around the base of her skull. Sherlock pressed his fingertips into the hottest clusters of nerves there and Layla relaxed a bit.

"I told you that you need to calm down. You are jealous. And although I certainly can't understand why, I know that you are." He continued kneading her neck and Layla loosened up significantly.

"I'm going back for the wedding in a couple of weeks, will you—will you come with me? Please?" She knew it was a long shot but Sherlock seemed particularly empathetic at the moment so she gave it a try.

"No." He ceased his attentions and left her alone in the kitchen in favor of the impersonal glow of John's computer.

"I figured." She muttered under her breath and then spoke up again, "Not even as Colin?"

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the question and Layla gave up on the prospect. Of course, just when she needed some emotional support Sherlock withdrew completely like he was allergic to her needs. Well, most of her needs. She still had the terms of their arrangement to fall back on.

"So, about that discussion…" She was still upset and what better way to make herself feel better than a good bout of angry sex with Sherlock.

"I'm going to use the rabbit." He didn't even look up from the computer. Layla wilted, she no longer had the energy to wrestle with Sherlock's stubborn nature that evening.

"That's not what I was talking about, Sherlock."

"No, but it's what _I_ was." He cut a steely eye towards her and then back to the computer screen. "You didn't open my parcel, I hope."

"I stuck it under my bed and there it sits still." Layla trudged towards the front door. What she needed was sleep now, since she wasn't going to find any sort of relief up here with Captain Heartless.

"Where are you going?"

"To sleep. You certainly aren't doing any good for my blood pressure but some blissful oblivion will. Oh, and Alex is staying at a hotel after tonight, so you can come back tomorrow."

"I didn't wait up here for you to come and vent your emotions and I surely didn't keep this wretched excuse for a suit on all that time for naught. Come here." Sherlock shut John's computer and stood from the chair. When Layla didn't show any signs of responding he strode quickly to the front door and blocked her path.

"What? I mentioned our _discussion_ before and you weren't the least concerned. Now that I've resigned myself to sleeping by horrible day away you're suddenly interested in me and keeping me awake? I'm not playing your game tonight." She tried to push him aside but Sherlock was unyielding, and strong. So strong.

"You should though." Layla looked up quickly. Sherlock sounded serious and slightly dangerous. He looked it too, his eyes were positively threatening in their unblinking appraisal of her body. Layla felt herself blushing as his eyes tore across her breast and waist, and despite it all she could feel the tingling beginnings of arousal. The growing bulge in his trousers only deepened the sensation for her and she caught herself biting her lower lip. Sherlock was, as he had already mentioned, still wearing the professor-like suit and now, without the rest of his disguise, strongly resembled her fantasy.

"Remove your clothing." His command was quiet but just as electrifying as a shout. Sherlock's voice was capable of intimidation at any register it seemed. Not only that, but its rolling bass always had a way of making Layla squirm.

"Oh, I don't know. I am actually really tired and I—"

"I _said_, remove your clothing." Sherlock took step closer to Layla and cut her elusive excuse short. She back away from him and towards the kitchen.

"But—"

"Now." Layla's lower back collided with the counter and she drew a shuddering breath. This was quickly turning much darker than her imagination had allowed for with its mock instructions and collegiate themed sex. Sherlock was downright menacing. Layla pulled off her tank top and let her cotton bottoms pool around her feet.

"Thank you." Sherlock purred with sultry tones. He wasn't any less scary, just feigning appeasement. It sent shivers down Layla's spine.

"Sherlock, this isn't really what I meant before. Nothing like this actually." She set her hands on his chest, partially to establish some physical contact with him but also to keep him at bay.

"I won't hurt you." His face lightened, losing the ominous shadow of the character he had assumed. The change made Layla sigh with relief. "I had no intention of frightening you, Layla. I was merely following your requests which, by your reaction, were not properly voiced."

"I don't know what sort of professors you were around and damn I'm glad I never encountered them, that was pretty freaky, Sherlock. I just meant some light scolding and instruction not… not that." Sherlock's face changed again, assumed an air of aloofness, and he leaned away from her touch.

"Layla, I need your cooperation. Now, turn around." His voice was firm, but not worrying. He had adjusted his act. Layla turned around and carefully set her hips flush with the edge of the counter. She knew what was about to happen and she wanted to avoid the bruises as far as was possible.

"Now, hold still or I will be required to detain you even longer." Layla could hear Sherlock fiddling with his trousers and the rumpling plunk of belt and fabric settling on the floor a few seconds later. She nearly jumped when he pressed his body up behind her and began working his hips against the satin-y fabric of her panties. Soon after, he unlatched her bra and took her breasts in his hands. Layla twitched with the chill of his hands and felt her nipples grow hard instantly. He cupped one breast in his right hand and brought left hand back to take hold of her underwear. They were pulled aside with relative ease and clung around the middle of her thighs within a few moments.

"You may move to remove them." Sherlock's hand dropped from her breast and his warm presence disappeared briefly as Layla worked her panties down the length of her legs and onto the floor.

"Spread your legs." Sherlock was still no closer. "Wider." Layla inched her feet even further apart and leaned harder on the counter to keep her balance.

"Move your feet a step back and rest your weight on your forearms." Layla complied again but didn't hold the position for long. A stinging slap collided with her right butt cheek and she leapt around with a squeak.

"What the-?" She met the quizzical expression of Sherlock.

"Not right?"

"No, well, not expected. Although, not _not_ right. Just—just warn me next time." Layla stumbled over her words, and turned back around. She had never had a problem with spanking before but then again she had never been surprised by it like that.

"Very well." A smack on her other cheek evened the throb she felt on her right and she hissed slightly at the pain but kept still.

"You should change position." Sherlock's voice was normal again, cool and even. Layla looked over her shoulder at him and frowned.

"Why?"

"This angle, against a counter, it was this way that I hurt you before." He blinked quickly and looked down at her body. Layla could tell he was feeling conflicted, he had enjoyed the impersonal-ness of this angle but he remembered all those months ago when he had lost control and drove her to tears.

"No, Sherlock, it's fine. Just not too hard, when you can't hold back anymore just move me. Or I'll let you know." She leaned back onto her elbows and presented her bottom even more than before. She waited like that for several moments but Sherlock never approached, he instead stood a few feet back staring at her. Patiently, Layla leaned forward and breathed. She was losing wood fast though.

"Is there a problem?" Her voice echoed off the counter in front of her and sounded especially hollow to her ears.

"None at all." Sherlock's voice was thick and husky and Layla peered back around her arm at him. He was stroking his length, roughly. Layla bit her lip as she watched. She had enjoyed the sight of it several days before and now it set her even more aflame. "Stay still." He reminded her as she shift slightly for a better view. His injunction only reminded Layla of her own need, how she couldn't reach down to caress her own thrumming nub.

"Sherlock…"

"What was that, Ms. McManis?" Layla bit her lip and steadied her nerves.

"Professor Holmes," the whisper felt exhilarating as it slipped from her lips, "may I move my hand?"

"No." She caught her breath and let her forehead drop to the counter. The fact that he said no made it all even more thrilling. She could almost feel her moistness spreading down her leg. Staying still became even more challenging when Sherlock began panting avidly. She knew the sound, he was close and it drove her mad to not have him inside of her, not to have her body causing that reaction. A tiny moan hummed in the back of her throat and she felt the center of her aching with need.

"Sir, please." She sounded positively frantic. He responded mercifully by releasing his now pulsing erection and pressing it between her legs, just beyond her wet warmth.

"You've been very cooperative." Sherlock set his left hand on the small of her back and pushed down on her trying her strength. She only sank slightly. "Steady yourself." Layla splayed her hands and leaned back against Sherlock's hand and was rewarded for her obedience. Removing his member, Sherlock inserted two long fingers inside of Layla and pumped them in and out slowly. Layla rocked into his hand but was generally unaffected by the attentions. Sherlock took note and withdrew his hand. Layla groaned with the absence of sensation but remained still, she couldn't bear to wait even longer as punishment.

Almost immediately Sherlock was inside of her, thrusting straight into her center and groaning deeply. As full as she was of his length Layla groaned for more, "Deeper." The command incited Sherlock and he bucked harder inside of her and tarried there pressing hard against her bum with his hips and pulling her closer to him with both hands. Layla gasped and felt her inner walls twitching around Sherlock as if reaching to hold him inside of her. Her pulsing flexing elicited a throaty growl from Sherlock and he jerked into motion, erratically and forcefully driving his length into her.

Layla was still yearning terribly, the penetrative sensation, although arousing was not pleasurable in and of itself at this angle and she moaned in frustration. Sherlock misread her reaction and gasped for air as his pace sped. Layla finally had speak up.

"Sherlock! Friction alone won't do it!"

He stuttered in his rhythm and fell against her shaking and panting. Layla could feel him inside of her pulsing wildly with his heartbeat and that sensation was quickly joined by the long needed pressure against her clit.

"Fuck, yes. Ah, Sherlock!" The extended ache of need had left Layla's own pleasure point completely over-sensitized and with the first touch she felt jolts of electricity jump though her limbs. She pressed forward against his hand and fell into an excited rhythm, one which thrusted hard enough to move around Sherlock inside of her. He sprung back to life and began slamming into her again while leaving his hand as a pressure base for Layla's clit. The period of stillness had, unfortunately, had a similar effect on Sherlock and he emptied into her with a final forceful thrust several seconds later.

"No, Sherlock!" Layla leaned into his hand but he wilted around her in exhaustion. She groaned as her peaking orgasm faded and fluttered away. "You have got to be kidding me!" She slammed one of her fists into the counter and sighed angrily.

"Oh calm down. I will finish you off in a moment." Sherlock slid from within her and sank down against the cabinets. His face was dripping with sweat, and Layla supposed the rest of him was as well under the cloth of his suit, he had only removed his trousers.

"You'll have to dry clean that before you wear it again." Sherlock chuckled and open an eye slowly.

"Stand up." He stood and reached around her waist to hold her mound between his thumb and forefinger. His breath fluttered beside her ear and he stepped forward to hold his body along the length of hers. Layla lurched into his hand as his teeth grazed the shell of her ear. Another hand floated up the length of her stomach and tweaked a nipple, alternating between teasing pinching and firm massage.

It was a slower build up but Layla felt the distinct heat blooming and spreading in her groin, her stomach tightening and flexing. Her breath came in bursts as she pressed her eyes closed and melted into his dexterous manipulating, deft changes in direction and speed. He focused exclusively on her clit and with little gentleness. It was beyond stimulating and Layla felt her head beginning to lighten, her hearing muffling and her fists clenching hard enough for her nails to cut into her palms.

"Hmmm." An amused hum in Sherlock's baritone rumbled quietly beside her ear and let loose the floodgates. Layla stiffened and then shuddered as her orgasm peaked and waned to leave her floppy and murky-headed against the counter.

"Fluuuh." She slid down the counter and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor. "I know it wasn't over a desk but that was an excellent enactment of my fantasy. Thank you, Sherlock."

"I'm pleased to hear you say that because my actions this evening are not free, I expect a return." Layla yawned and stretched her legs contentedly.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Whatever you want Sherlock." She left her eyes closed and leaned heavily against the kitchen cabinets.

"Excellent." The silky purr of Sherlock's voice sent another set of chills across Layla's skin, but not of excitement. This single word was far more frightening than any of Sherlock's menacing acting. Her eyes flew open and focused on Sherlock smirking down at her.

"Oh, dear." Layla sat up and winced. She knew that Sherlock never did things just because she wanted him to. She knew that, so why had she mindlessly blundered into this? Once again, Sherlock had manipulated her. "What did I just agree to?"

"The rabbit. I told you that already." The look on Sherlock's face made Layla feel even more like a moron. She whimpered with fatigued defeat.

"Please, Sherlock. That poor animal doesn't deserve to be experimented on."

"I assured you earlier today that I will not harm it. Only observe the effects of certain irritants and their remedies." He finished fastening his trousers and waved Layla's sentimental concern away with a contemptuous shrug.

"Yeah, but I have a hard time believing any experiment you would do on an animal and not on some body parts could be innocent. What are you doing, metabolizing poison?" Layla pulled her top over her head and stepped into her underwear.

"Something like that." Sherlock handed Layla's bra to her with a smile. "I'll explain tomorrow."

"If you kill Fluffy, I will destroy something you love." Layla squinted at Sherlock and snatched her bra out of his hands.

Sherlock chuckled, "I believe you." He sat back down in his arm chair and resumed the book he had been reading before.

"I'll let you know when Alex leaves tomorrow." She finished dressing and headed towards the door.

"Mmm." Sherlock kept his eyes locked on his book.

"Okay, um, see you then." Layla tarried by the door and struggled with a strange twinge in her chest. She realized this was the first time since she had found him that Sherlock wouldn't share her bed. She was going to miss him and her voice betrayed that fact. "Goodnight."

Sherlock's eyes darted up to Layla's departing figure and a singular expression graced his face, soft and warm, something reserved for those moments when nobody was watching. "Goodnight, Layla," he murmured quietly under his breath as the door shut with a gentle snap.


	7. What Is and What Should Never Be

**A/N: I could add some kind of warning about mild explicit content here, but you guys already know what you're getting into at this point...**

Layla didn't sleep well that night. She kept having nightmares.

* * *

_Oh, Layla, dear. Come here. Shh, shh. Hush now. _Mrs. Hudson's face is weary, drawn and tear-stained. Above all else, Layla sees tears. Her mind grasps for words and Mrs. Hudson pulls her into a shaking hug. Layla isn't crying, she doesn't know what she's doing but it's not crying. Gawking, gasping, blinking. Speaking.

_Can I, can I see him? Are you sure he's—are you sure he's gone?_ Her voice is wrong, rough, dead, and distant. Surely she isn't speaking, it must be someone else. Another person grappling with a death. Mrs. Hudson is sobbing into her shoulder shaking so hard Layla is concerned for the elderly woman's well being.

_No._ _No you can't. He's not coming back. All his antics and messes and rudeness. Gone._ _Just gone._ Mrs. Hudson is hysterical. Layla finds herself comforting her, patting her shoulder and easing her into her arm chair. She's climbing the steps, opening the front door. John's there, he doesn't look up with her approach. He has collapsed inward, staring, unmoving and silent. Layla feels like she's in a state of suspended reality, a bubble where the laws of nature cease. She feels like she weighs a thousand pounds and yet her limbs are made of water.

_John, please, tell me what happened._ _John? John?_ She sinks to the floor, avoiding Sherlock's chair, avoiding any comfort. Her knees ache with the impact and her shoulders weary. She can't breathe. She's crying and each shuddering gasp stings like a knife.

_John, speak to me please._ _Tell me he's not gone. Tell me he's alive._ John doesn't respond. He's not even conscious of her presence there.

Suddenly she's there, she's outside St. Bart's. The scene is blurry and dark. _It's my imagination_. Her bleary subconscious spots the tell. And yet, there he is. Sherlock. Sherlock as he should be. And yet not, everything is wrong. His face is marred with grief, he's crying. Layla hates that he's crying. Then he's falling, plummeting with arms outstretched and then he's gone. Gone. It feels like her throat is ripping. She's screaming, screaming his name with all of her being.

She's standing over his grave. Alone. Black marble and fresh grass and the smell of dirt. She spoils her dress kneeling on the plot. When she stands she finds her hose has ripped so she pulls at the hole, widening it until her whole knee is bare. _Sherlock. Why? Why would you do this? You aren't a fake, you can't be._ Her face is dry. She's cried so much in the past few days the action has lost its meaning. Now the deepest hurt comes from being silent. All she wants to do is talk to him, yell at him. Mrs. Hudson did. John did, finally. Layla waited until they had left and walked back.

Now she's alone and she can be angry with him. She knows she didn't matter much to him. But he did to her. _What about our child? How could you leave me to take care of this tiny creature that you fought so hard to create? How?_ She cradles her stomach and leaves. They baby is all she has left.

_No, don't leave me, Sherlock. Don't leave us._ _Sherlock! Sherlock!_

* * *

Layla sat upright with a jolt. There was daylight streaming through her windows, a rabbit in the corner hutch, and Alex on a pallet. She wasn't mourning beside an onyx headstone. She was sitting in her bed being watched by her best friend. Her awake best friend. _Shit, I hope I wasn't talking in my sleep_.

"Still having those dreams, huh?" _Alex is a motherfucking mind reader._

"Oh, you noticed." Layla rubbed her face and scalp and avoided Alex's gaze.

"Honey, it wasn't about noticing. I couldn't sleep through the shouting." She sat gently on the edge of the bed and grabbed Layla's hand. "You need to talk about it. Those dreams aren't healthy and they've been happening for far too long." Alex's eyes were sad, and still tired. Dark circles dimmed her normally bright face and her forehead was creased with concern.

"Jesus, Alex. You look rough. How long have I kept you awake?"

"Nearly the entire night. You started up a little after midnight and you didn't stop shouting his name 'til now." Layla squeezed her eyes closed and breathed deeply. She had definitely just succeeded in foiling her attempts to assure Alex that she was fine. _Ironically, I am fine. I haven't had that dream since I stumbled upon Sherlock. Wait…_

"Hey, did you say still?"

"Yeah, I heard you shout basically the same four sentences for those two weeks you stayed with me back home. Every night. I had hoped that had stopped…" Her voice trailed off and she glanced around the apartment. _Okay, Layla. Time for damage control._

"They had stopped, Alex. Really, it's been months since I've had that nightmare. I guess seeing you triggered some of the feelings I was still wrestling with at home. Or maybe the stress of Teresa getting married, or maybe the realization that I'm alone. But, seriously, I've been better. Please don't worry." Layla smiled reassuringly and slipped her hand out from under Alex's.

"So what do you think about tea? I can make some and some pancakes. Or, I have coffee, or even orange juice and obviously the cereal from last night. Or, we could go out for brunch, see the city a little bit. It is Saturday in London!" Layla bounded into her kitchen and began rummaging around her in cupboards to start up the tea.

"Layla? I think we should talk about this."

"Oh, I don't think so. It's just a dream, all over now." Layla realized she was acting too okay, but she couldn't stop now. The smile was too permanently etched into her face.

"Well, maybe you could tell me about it. That's sometimes said to be therapeutic. Talking about what happens in nightmares." Alex was standing in between Layla and the kettle. Layla was, however, taller than her friend.

"There isn't much to tell. Really, it isn't a nightmare proper. I mean, there's the part where I watch him jump—" Alex gasped involuntarily and slapped a hand over her mouth. "—so that has to be my imagination filling in the gaps, but the rest of it is real, was real. Just snippets of memory I relive. And you've heard all those parts I assume." Layla filled the tea kettle with water and set it on the stove.

"But, you weren't there for the… when he—he fell. Why would you dream that up?" Alex's eyes were wide with pain and Layla was pretty sure she could see tears budding in them. Alex was tenderly empathetic.

"I wasn't, you're right, that's the worst part, I think. Making myself imagine the event. It's pretty messed up and my mind realizes it in the dream, every time. All of a sudden I'll say to myself 'this isn't right, I wasn't here for this part I must be imagining this.' It's really trippy." She stooped over to light the stove and then headed over to the cabinets with the tea bags.

"And you really said all those things? You begged him not to leave you and—and the baby?" Alex was hiccupping over her tears. She had only seen Layla after the funeral, once she had calmed down and swallowed her grief mostly. The realization of what Layla had endured was distressing.

"Um, yeah, yeah I did. I was pretty distraught."

"And over him?" Tears were streaming down Alex's cheeks.

"Yes, well at the grave plot. I never saw him after. I'm glad for that now, I don't think I could have survived seeing him broken." Layla's voice even caught at the thought of Sherlock lying bloodied and lifeless on the pavement of St. Bart's. _Poor John._ She shivered and focused on the fact that Sherlock was upstairs, breathing and unharmed.

"I'm so, so sorry." Alex threw her arms around Layla and sobbed into her chest. "I can't even begin to imagine. And then the _**baby**_!" Layla cringed but continued soothingly patting Alex's back. It seemed this little talk had been more cathartic for Alex than for her.

"I'm alright now, Alex. Here, have some tea." Layla gently released herself from Alex's soggy grasp and readied their cups.

"I guess you really are. Here I am sobbing pathetically over a story that you actually lived and you're completely dry eyed. Either you have basically healed or you are a damn good liar." Alex sniffled and accepted the tea while Layla shoved her head into the refrigerator. _Both. You mean both, Alex. I'm over it and a giant rotten liar._

"Milk?"

Their breakfast was conducted in a similar fashion, and even their tour of the city afterwards. Layla would attempt to make normal conversation, talking about Alex's job or the gossip from home but then some mention of a date Alex went on or someone else getting married or having children and then Alex would grow very quiet and tears would well in her eyes as she blinked forlornly at Layla. During one of these occurrences Layla could feel her control wearing and running thin.

"How ya doin?" Layla glanced up from the map she had just purchased and found her glassy eyes friend peering at her with trembling lip. She had just mentioned that she had a favorite bakery by Molly's but she couldn't remember whether it was east or west of St. Bart's. _I will have to add that one to the 'do not mention' list_. The blacklist already included 'jump,' 'fall,' 'John,' 'hospital,' 'child' or any variation thereof not to mention the obvious 'dead,' 'Sherlock' or 'suicide.' Even when she was screaming at their taxi driver for being a 'suicidal maniac.' Clearly she shouldn't have told Alex about the nightmare.

"Pretty well except for not knowing my way around a city I've lived in for months." She twisted the map in front of her and ignored the doe eyed compassion of her friend.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You always do." Layla closed her eyes to hide the long overdue eye roll that was uncontrollable at that point. She really would never be able to introduce Alex to Sherlock, even when he's 'alive again.' He would self combust at her maudlin ways.

"Uh, yeah. You know Alex—" She was cut short by a short burst of song from her phone. A text. She had yet to inform Sherlock that the apartment was free and he was probably upset with her dallying. _No, it's from Henry._

"Oh, look Alex. Henry knows you're in town. He wants to meet for coffee." She held out her phone and breathed a sigh of relief when Alex grinned excitedly.

"Oh, Henry. How I adore that man. Where should we meet him?" Layla retrieved her phone and quickly typed out a response.

"You know, I was thinking that if I finally found this bakery that that would be perfect. There's a little café nearby I think. Either that or I've imagine its whole existence." She continued typing furiously, this time texting Sherlock: _We're out and about now. You're free to go downstairs._

"Oh look, he texted me too! What a sweety, still flirting too." Alex tittered over her message and quickly forgot the morose pattern of pity and comfort she had fallen into with Layla.

"That's Hen for you." Layla wasn't really listening. She was more concerned with Sherlock's response. It had been basically immediate: _I am aware. Don't return for two hours._ She had no idea what he could be doing in the apartment for two hours and what it was that required that she be absent but it didn't leave a pleasant feeling in her stomach. She typed out her response in a hurry and made sure to keep her face free of emotion: _Should I be concerned?_

"What's going on over there, Layla? That's a pretty serious face for someone searching for a bakery." Alex, while not endowed with the quickest wit or the staunchest constitution was certainly capable of observing people's minds, especially Layla's. _Oh sweet lord, she always knows when I'm hiding something. How long will it be until she discovers Sherlock?_

"Oh, you know. Man friend texting with less than great news. He cancelled our date for tomorrow." _Lies. Straight up, bold face lies you filthy, awful friend, you scourge of trust and confidence- _

"Hmm. That's just way too bad. More time for me though! Oh and Henry says he knows where your bakery is, he's coming to find us now." Alex grinned and returned to texting Henry. She was an audacious flirt but Layla was pretty sure that way down somewhere Alex had feelings for Henry and had had them for many, many years. She'd never admit it though.

Layla's phone, now on silent to keep her ongoing dialogue with Sherlock off of Alex's radar, vibrated in her hand. _Not overmuch. _Layla breathed deeply, _not overmuch? What the fuck does that mean? _She needed more information: _Is this a 'don't come back I'm melting something disgusting in your bathtub again' don't return for two hours or a 'don't come back_ _I've killed Fluffy and need time to replace him' don't return for two hours?_ Layla sent the text and checked on Alex. She was still unaware of Layla's continuing text conversation. Mostly because she was so tied up in her texting with Henry.

Her phone buzzed again: _The former, you'd need a gasmask in order to return before I aerate the flat. _Layla practically snarled and punched her phone screen with growing panic. _You had better have a tiny one for Fluffy!_ Sherlock responded immediately: _A moisten towel covers his cage, don't be ridiculous._ Layla breathed a sigh of relief and shoved her phone into her purse, that didn't require a response.

"Oh, he says he's in a cab coming up the street! Oo oo! There he is." Alex leapt off the bench they had taken up and skipped towards the taxi pulling up alongside the curb. Sure enough Henry threw open the back door and stepped out wearing his most indulgent smile.

"Alexandra! So good to see you! You look great, you've certainly made good use of the last eight months!" He lifted Alex from the ground in a sweeping hug and earned a delighted squeal.

"Oh please, I think I've actually gained weight since I last saw you." Alex demurely turned away from Henry and punched his arm softly.

"That's what I mean." He winked and looked up at Layla. "Coming McManis?" He grinned sheepishly and waited with a clearly nervous look in his eye. Their last encounter had ended with him running away before he could earn himself a throttling, he always seemed to have bad news for Layla and was therefore probably still concerned for his easily bruised arms.

"Yeah, yeah Henry. Now, tell me how you know where that place is. If you say you just do, I will throttle you." She slid into the back of the cab with her two oldest friends and chose to ignore the text she had just received. The last thing she wanted was some bad news ruining this rare outing.

* * *

"Alright ladies, here we are!" Henry bounced out of the cab and held the door wide for Alex and Layla. "That's your bakery, isn't Layla?" He elbowed the frowning Layla and waggled his eyebrows expectantly.

"Um, no." Layla shook her head with a sigh and then pulled out the map she had been pouring over before Henry had 'taken over.' "Nope. Definitely not," she looked at the street listing on the nearest building, "yeah, we're not even in the right part of town."

"Damn. Oh well! It's a bakery, come on." Henry grabbed Alex by the hand and led her giggling towards the entrance. Layla swallowed her rebukes and shoving the map back in her bag followed them inside.

"Oh, and Layla, I have something here for you." Henry patted his briefcase with a mischievous grin and then turned to the counter attendant to place his order.

"What is it?" Layla was always suspicious of anything Henry had for her, be that news or gifts.

"Oh, just a little surprise from both of us." Alex tittered and bobbed up and down on her heels. Whatever it was, it had her excited. Layla was now doubly suspicious.

"From both of you?"

"Yep. Let's take our pastries for a walk, yeah?" Henry handed over a bag of baked goods and led the way back out to the street.

"Um, honestly, I don't like the sound of this." Layla felt her phone vibrate again in her purse and snatched it up. She had missed two calls from Mycroft, not received a text message. _Oh well. I'll call him back in a bit._

"Yeah, you see it turns out—" Alex paused for dramatic effect, "—you seem to talk in your sleep _all_ the time." She stifled a snigger and blinked innocently up at Layla. Layla, however, was very far from laughing. She was, in fact, on the precipice of panic. There was a wide variety of things she dreamt about, many of them concerning a still living Sherlock, that she didn't want Alex to have overheard.

"Oh yeah?" She kept her voice surprisingly level considering the flurry of emotions currently battering her brain.

"Yeah, it's good to know you don't exclusively have nightmares." Alex held out her hand into which Henry placed a dark plastic bag. "Is this what you were asking for lessons in?"

* * *

"Sherlock?" Layla arrived back her apartment after enduring a couple hours of friendly mocking and had an explicit series of questions for the detective. Luckily he was in, sitting at her desk with an elaborate collection of phials and beakers spread across the surface. Her desk which was now cleared of all of her things. She ignored the fact that months of research were now strewn haphazardly across the floor and marched over to him. He was holding Fluffy and the poor rabbit looked frantic.

"What are you doing to Fluffy? Never mind, we'll get to that in a minute. What do you know about romping rabbits?" Sherlock stopped trying to shove what looked to Layla to be a poison ivy leaf down Fluffy's throat and glanced up at Layla looking perturbed.

"Absolutely nothing, why?" He didn't enjoy admitting holes in his knowledge.

"Well, neither did I." Layla held out the plastic bag she had grasped in her mortified clutches several hours before so that Sherlock could inspect its contents.

"That's a self-stimulation device. Why do _you_ have it?" He frowned back up at Layla. She was pretty sure Sherlock was feeling inadequate for the first time in his life.

"Funny story. It seems that these are euphemistically called rabbits." Sherlock blinked up at Layla impatiently.

"That does not answer my question."

"I talk in my sleep."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock shrugged at what was apparently common knowledge.

"And I had a visitor sleeping in my apartment last night." Sherlock continued to stare at her. She could see the cogs turning; he was close to connecting the dots. "I tend to dream about recent experiences." Sherlock's mouth dropped open for a split second as he realized what had happened.

"Does she know?" He stood from her chair and set the squirming bunny on the ground to give Layla his full attention.

"About you? No. She just thinks I need a vibrator. Apparently I mentioned, or rather, requested a lesson in rabbits. Needless to say my friend now thinks I have an obsession with them and therefore needed one." She dropped the box onto the bed and shook her head.

"That certainly adds a level of meaning to our exchange last night." Sherlock retrieved the discarded toy and removed it from its packaging.

"Yes, now I will only ever think of you 'using the rabbit' as somehow using this." Sherlock cut her with an icy stare but she just shrugged. It was true. 'Rabbit' was now a tainted term for her.

"It hardly imitates reality." He had switched it on. "It vibrates and undulates. The male gentalia cannot do that." He wrinkled his nose at the rotating head of the vibrator.

"Yeah well, you know us modern women, we don't conform our needs to patriarchal limitations of biology."

"That doesn't—" Sherlock was mid-protest but Layla was finished with the discussion.

"I received a call, well two, from your brother. The unmasking of Darren is complete. I have to go in for some sort of debriefing on Monday." Layla sat down on the bed and tried to quell the terrified shivering of Fluffy.

"Mm. Are you going to keep this?" Sherlock sniffed in distaste at the 'rabbit' he had set on the table.

"Oh, you know, I might." His face turned stolid and his eyes hardened. "It'll come in handy when you finally decide you're finished with me."

"I'm going to dispose of it." Layla chuckled and allowed Sherlock to glean what he might from that response. She wasn't really in the position to stop him anyway.

"So, are you going to tell me what you've been doing and why you were trying to force feed Fluffy a poison ivy leaf?" Sherlock grinned as he repackaged the vibrator.

"You noticed."

"Well, yeah. At home you learn the rules, once you've had a poison ivy rash you generally avoid having it again. Leaves of three leave them be." Fluffy had finally stopped struggling against Layla's mollifying stroking. His little heart had not, however, slowed. "So why in the world would you be feeding them to the bunny you had promised not to harm?"

"You know that already, you have just failed to understand all the evidence." Sherlock popped on a second pair of latex gloves and held one covered hand out for Fluffy.

"Oh stop being so pretentious and just tell me." She set Fluffy in his hand reluctantly and pondered over whether rabbits could suffer heart attacks.

"I'm metabolizing poison in a way, remember." He set another leaf in the poor animal's mouth and held it shut until Fluffy chewed and swallowed it.

"You're what?"

"I'm testing a common theory that ingesting the urushiol oil of the _Toxicodendron radicans _can create an immunity to the topical irritation it causes. The rash is, after all, an allergic response. Hence the bald rabbit." He set Fluffy back on the ground and carefully removed the gloves.

"You're testing poison ivy immunity on Fluffy? That's cruel Sherlock."

"Not if it works."

"No, but if it doesn't then we'll have a very unhappy bunny on our hands." Layla scooped up the poor animal and carried him over to his hutch for a well deserved rest. Sherlock was unconcerned. He had turned instead to resealing a variety of bags all containing plants. "So, what's with the plants? And why did I need to stay away for so long."

"I was distilling plant-based toxins. This required boiling them in alcohol which has a tendency to vaporize. The last thing I needed was for you to inhale the aerosol irritants. The plants are poison ivy, as you already correctly identified, and the common parsnip. Both cause severe dermatological reactions. The poison ivy can be made into an acutely painful aerosol, something akin to what, I believe, you call 'pepper spray' but to which I can hypothetically develop immunity. The parsnip, slightly more interestingly, emits a resin which, when activated by UV light, its active protein, psoralen, engages in intense photosynthesis. So intense that it can physically burn the organic substance it comes in contact with and on human skin it creates permanent melanin pigmentation thereby leaving a very unique scar."

"Okay. Why?"

"Excellent question. Covert self-defense. Both toxins have a delayed effect, thus if the want is not pressing I need not expose myself as an assailant, but still inflict damage. Remarkable damage, the parsnip resin leaves an unmistakable mark and the urushiol oil if inhaled can be an incredible respiratory hindrance if not a fatal irritant." Sherlock gathered up three phials full of what had to be the distilled poison ivy oil and tucked them into a safe box he kept in another hole in Layla's floor (one that was also previously unknown to her.)

"And you were distilling those here, where we live?"

"Indeed."

"And you weren't concerned about, oh I don't know, creating a severe allergic reaction in yourself and the rest of the inhabitants of this building?" Layla could feel the color rising in her cheeks. This man was very bad for her blood pressure. Sherlock was, as usual, devastatingly cool in his response.

"I did tell you not to come back until the place was aerated." He placed a larger beaker of off-colored viscous goo in the safe box and then packed the plants on top.

"And how about John, or Mrs. Hudson, or you, Sherlock?" She inserted herself between Sherlock and the desk, just to make sure her seriousness was coming off clearly.

"I blocked the door and ventilation shafts with damp towels, opened your window, and wore a complete safety kit." He reached around her to finish gathering the chemist's tools and strolled into the bathroom. Layla followed to find her entire shower unit filled with dirty towels and the safety kit he had been wearing assumedly.

"What a fucking mess." Layla crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Sherlock filled her sink with the other equipment. "You are going to clean this up. You know that right?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course." He didn't. Layla spent the next few hours carefully scalding all the glass implements with boiling water and industrial strength soap.

"I hate you."

"Mmhmm." Sherlock was reading who knows what on the computer when Layla leaned out of the bathroom to take stock of his 'chore' for the evening, fixing something edible. He had done nothing.

"That wasn't a question, assface." Layla pulled the yellow rubber gloves higher up on her arm and tried to see around the fog building up in her safety goggles as she plunged into the last beaker.

"I know."

"Oh, so you were just agreeing with the fact that I hate you?"

"Clearly."

"Still hate you." She set the purged beaker over-turned on the floor and turned towards the shower. She would just buy new towels. "Okay, what did you fix us for dinner?" She stripped off the gloves and goggles and moved into the kitchen without the slightest hope of finding any food.

"I can eat later." Sherlock waved Layla off and peered closer at the screen.

"Oh, I'm such a silly mortal." She laid a placatory hand on her grumbling stomach and weighed her options. She could punch Sherlock in the face and glean no benefit, she could toil away in the kitchen just to have him undermine her efforts eating the ingredients piecemeal, or she could order in. "I'm ordering in."

"What for?"

"Food, idi—oh." Layla opened the refrigerator looking for a snack and instead found a cold pasta salad. "Never mind. Well done, Sherlock." Layla spooned a portion out onto her plate and, despite her good sense, made a second plate for Sherlock. "Ooo, goat cheese. Fancy." She set the plate down beside him, placed the fork on top of his clasped hands and then took hers to the bed. "I'm switching on the TV, deal with it."

A few minutes later Layla heard the fork clatter from the desk to the floor. Sherlock had finally moved from his thinking posture and had upset the fork's delicate balance on his hands. She watched from the corner of her eyes as he leaned over to pick it up, itself unusual, and then took it to the kitchen sink. She almost choked on her food when he retrieved a replacement and brought it, along with the plate, over to the bed beside her.

"Thanks for dinner, you did well." She scooted over on the foot of the bed to give him room to sit and smiled when he turned to acknowledge her thanks.

"Recipes aren't exactly difficult to exact… but you're welcome." His fork hardly settled on the plate as Sherlock proceeded to systematically demolish his serving. Layla wasn't surprised, he had been left to his own devices that entire day and the pattern up until then had been for her to initiate breakfast. He probably hadn't eaten since their dinner out the night before.

"You were hungry." She collected his empty plate and took it with hers to the kitchen. "So, are you finished torturing Fluffy or am I not allowed to buy him a sweater tomorrow?"

"Regardless, you are not allowed to put a _sweater_ on anything that isn't a human being." He had pulled his knees up beneath his chin and was staring at the television with little interest.

"You know at some point you'll have to resort to calling him Fluffy. You're other options are bleak: bunny, the emasculating alternative to rabbit, a term evermore associated with vibrators thanks to Henry and Alex." Sherlock slid off the bed and stalked off to sulk in some activity, Layla wasn't paying much attention to him. She was full and sleepy and the show on the television was vaguely interesting.

"Hey! They were about to show the clip from that new movie." Layla tried to lean around Sherlock's legs which were now blocking her view. She stopped squirming when he knelt down on the floor and she could see by peering over his head. "What are you doing?" Sherlock had grabbed onto her ankle and was pulling her down to the edge of the bed again.

"Moving you." He slipped the cotton shorts off of her effortlessly and then removed her underwear before she even had a chance to sit up.

"Sherlock, what—" She gasped as he dipped immediately to work, his tongue running up along her center and sending unexpected jitters through Layla's body. She gave up trying to right herself and instead sank onto the bed allowing her body to relax into Sherlock's expert rhythm. His lack of hair detracted from her urge to hold on to him so she clutched the bed covers and closed her eyes. Sherlock's tongue never required direction any more, his alternation from teasing licks and the more applied maneuvers soon had Layla biting her lip and pushing against his face. The addition of his slender, adroit fingers only intensified her bucking and he had to steady her with his other hand on her hip.

"This… is an… _unexpected_… surprise." Layla had difficulty finishing her remark as Sherlock's teeth began to play a gentle role in his attentions.

"Hmmm." She thrust into his mouth when the previously well-received hum thrummed through her depths. She was, therefore, completely unprepared for the deviation from the norm that happened next.

"Holy Bacchus!" Layla darted away from Sherlock as an unfamiliar _object_ was added to the routine.

"No?" Sherlock held the 'rabbit' and quirked an eyebrow at Layla as she scrambled away.

"Uh, let me think. No. Not without proper warning." She sat up with the bed clothes up to her chin and waved at the phallus. "Like you said, that thing does stuff you don't. How did you expect me act when something is suddenly buzzing and writhing inside of me when before that it was just your run of the mill stroking of your, albeit talented, fingers?" Sherlock grinned and set the device aside.

"I suppose I really can dispose of this then."

"Yeah, I don't want that in your sneaky hands." Sherlock's grin cracked into a wicked smile as he mounted the bed and stripped the sheets off of Layla. He had achieved his goal, Layla no longer had an interest in the vibrator and he was once again assured of his superiority in every regard.


	8. Crossroads

**A/N: Short filler chapter before the fun stuff. A 'canon' character will be making their first appearance soon, so look forward to that and hope that my writer's block doesn't persist!**

Layla was late, not that that was unusual. For the last few months everywhere she went, not matter how early she departed, she always arrived an irritating five minutes late. It was going to be worse today, something more like fifteen. She was flailing around the apartment trying to gather her supplies for the day, her last day at work for a good month. After Darren Kellen's case became less than savory, Layla had begged Mycroft for a chunk of time off and had been granted it. She had nothing to work on, so why not?

"Sherlock, what about breakfast? I forgot breakfast!" Layla scooped up her phone, finally. It had been concealed behind a jar of liquefied mystery goo. She hadn't wanted to know, so she hadn't asked just what had melted.

"Trifles." Sherlock, on the other hand, was calmly sweeping through the flat collecting his gloves, hat and new pea coat. The weather had turned blustery and Layla had grown tired of the ratty trench coat, so she'd bought him a black wool pea coat which he look absolutely stunning in, of course.

"Yeah, but I'm going to be cranky…" Layla was already becoming irritable as her voice took on a distinctively whiny tone. "Hey, turn that down!" She threw her chin towards Sherlock's popped up collar. "It looks too you." She flung papers, cups and empty plates off her desk with one wide sweep and groped around for her keys. _I know I left them here somewhere…_

"Move along, Layla." Sherlock pulled his newsboy cap down and over his hair before shaking the keys from his little finger. "Are you looking for these?"

"Oh, yes. Good, okay, here have a scarf." Layla fished around in her bag for the scarf she had picked up the day before.

"I thought we were avoiding my previously distinctive look." Sherlock peered through a small crack in the door to check for other 221 occupants. The coast was clear.

"Yeah, but this one is red." Layla pulled out a thick crimson scarf and set it in Sherlock's hands. He smiled, just barely, and twisted it around his neck.

"Thank you, Layla." He held open the door and pushed her out. "Now move. Quickly."

Layla scampered out of her door and down the entry hall, tripping over herself with almost every step. _Maybe this is why I'm always late, I lose time falling all over my own feet._ She burst through the front door and hooked a right making a bee line towards the corner. It was too late to take the bus, she would just have to hoof it. All of a sudden, Sherlock was there beside her and then passing her taking the distance with great, smooth strides. Layla crinkled her brows at him and then at his unencumbered grace. She tripped.

"Ooof." She caught her balance and then jogged to catch up with Sherlock. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Coming with you, clearly." Sherlock hardly glanced at the oncoming traffic as he stepped confidently into the street. Layla did so less magnificently. A stumble and a strange melding of skipping and running later, she was abreast with him again.

"Yeah, but why? I have a meeting with Mycroft today, and that's it. In fact, I'm not even sure why he requested that I wait until today, I have no other assignments." She huffed along, realizing just how out of shape she was, but then again, she was practically running and she still couldn't hold his pace.

"Mycroft has been away." They took another turn at a corner Layla was unfamiliar with. She didn't hesitate, however, she was more of confident that the route Sherlock chose would be the most direct.

"Great, okay, he was unavailable before; that still doesn't explain why you're coming along. And without even a hint of a disguise." Layla stubbed her toe on a protruding pavement slab but didn't lose a step. Sherlock glanced back at her groan and slowed his step just a touch.

"I have some business to attend to. Pick your feet up higher." Sherlock drew his hand from his pocket just in time to catch Layla from yet another tumble. The increase speed wasn't helping with her innate clumsiness.

"I know how to walk, thank you." Layla snapped up at him as she righted herself and strode on with as much dignity as was left to her.

"Obviously not well." Sherlock's hand hovered unnoticed behind Layla's elbow and all she noted was the biting comment and the smirk on his face.

"What sort of business could you have in my building that requires you risking so much? Mycroft might see you." She picked her feet up a mere fraction of an inch higher with the next few steps but found her speed to be severely hindered. _Better stumbling and quicker than smooth and slow._ She returned to her normal gait.

"Well yes, he will. I'm going with you to the meeting. Seeing each other is implied, unfortunately."

"You're what, now?" Layla's change in pitch attracted the attention of some passersby so she cleared her throat and tried again. "You can't go to the meeting with me."

"Oh but I can, and I am."

"But—but he'll recognize you."

"So?"

"So? So, he'll know you're alive." Layla tugged on his sleeve as she lost speed and was left behind again. She wasn't going to make it on time, so wearing herself, and her feet, out before she got there was futile.

"Obviously. He knows. Where did you think I've been getting money from?" Sherlock stopped on the spot and waited for the puttering Layla to catch up.

"He knows? Oh, of course he knows, stupid me thinking you might have some secret bank account or a buried treasure somewhere. If he knows that you're alive and well and here then why were we spying on him all incognito before?" Layla was thinking back to the stake-out at the grocery mart.

"I didn't want him to know that I was stepping on his toes, or in town. We had… agreed that I was to leave town for a stretch of time. I didn't. It was easier if Mycroft didn't know that at the time." Sherlock stepped into an alley and gestured for Layla to follow. She did, very slowly.

"I don't like this Sherlock." She edged through a cut fence and tottered on behind him.

"It's quicker." He hoisted her up and over a low fence before jumping over himself.

"And grosser."

"Stop complaining and focus that energy on moving your feet in a more effective manner." He trod around the clear nest of a group of homeless people and then exited the alley. Layla followed eagerly and smiled as they stepped out across the way from her building. Sherlock certainly knew how to get around the city.

"Fantastic Sherlock! If we hurry I might actually be on time." Layla leapt across the road and then sprinted up the steps with Sherlock gliding along on her coattails.

"Indeed." He rolled his eyes and followed Layla, she was bright but she just didn't engage with the physical world as well as she should.

"At least wipe that look off your face," Layla quipped back at Sherlock, "if you don't, you'll be recognized by everyone here in a second, even with your shiny new hair-do." She snatched the hat out of his hand and stood on her tip toes to place it back on his head. "Which, by the way, needs to be re-colored. You're brunette is showing."

"No, no. Not that door." Sherlock pulled the hat down securely on his head again and grabbed Layla by the wrist. "We'll be meeting Mycroft via his private entrance." He led Layla around the nearest corner of the building and towards a locked side entrance.

"Do you have a key?" Layla glanced around the alley nervously, this entrance seemed either really official and therefore not a place for them to be, or really _not_ official and therefore not a place she wanted to be. Sherlock did not deign to grace Layla with a response. He instead retrieved the asked after key and quietly unlocked the door. They two of them slipped inside and padded silently down a clinically Spartan hallway. Sherlock bowed Layla through a door and then followed her inside.

"Wow, you weren't kidding. Private indeed." Layla gazed around Mycroft's darkened office. They had beat him in apparently. She edged around the expanse of his desk and maneuvered the other obstacles impeding her way to the chairs. "Ooof." She kneed the chair she was trying to climb into and toppled over it landing splayed out on the floor. Sherlock tutted and lifted her off the floor smoothly.

"We must work on that, you are the least stealthy individual I've ever encountered." He led her to the chair and then took his own seat.

"Yeah. I know. Good thing I don't need to be; my job is to de-stealth people, right? Cryptography and whatnot." Layla rubbed her kneecap tenderly and squinted towards where she supposed Sherlock to be. "Why don't we turn the lights on? Oh."

"Good morning." Mycroft stepped inside the newly lit room and hung his overcoat up. "Coffee, tea?" He rang his assistant who entered the normal entrance with a tray of the offered beverages.

"No thanks." Layla smiled at the young woman and shook her head, Sherlock simply waved aside the drink.

"Now, I realize that you were meant to start your time off today, Layla, but I need to speak with you concerning Darren Kellen once more." Mycroft stirred his tea and looked up at Layla from beneath his brows.

"Uh, yeah okay. But why does Sherlock need to be here and why is Darren still relevant? I thought he was arrested, I've already been interviewed, remember? You conducted it." Layla looked between the two brothers and was suddenly sunk with an overwhelming sense of defeat. Whatever was happening here, it wasn't good, especially since they weren't at each other's throats yet.

"Yes, all apt questions that will be addressed shortly." Mycroft smiled sourly at Layla and then glanced at Sherlock. The younger Holmes was staring fixedly at Mycroft. _Maybe it's not that bad, maybe Sherlock is just biding his time before he strikes. He sure looks poisonous over there glaring at Mycroft._

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and then dropped the smile. "But first, I need to have a short discussion with my dear brother, alone." He looked at Layla and then at the door. Sherlock spoke up before Layla had the time to gather her things.

"You cannot possibly have anything to say to me that would require inconveniencing Dr. McManis so." He held his brother's stare and lifted a challenging brow. Mycroft conceded after almost a minute of Layla waffling between leaving and staying.

"If you insist." He gestured for Layla to stay seated but kept his attention on Sherlock. "I instructed you, Sherlock, six months ago to leave the country. You have yet to do so and what's more you've been interfering in my investigations. I cannot abide this behavior a day longer. Either you go abroad ,as we agreed, or I will remove my _aid_." It was Mycroft's turn to look deathly serious.

"Why?" Layla gawked at Sherlock's impetuousness. If Mycroft was his only source of financial stability what was the point of ruffling his feathers. Not that she wanted Sherlock to leave, in fact, the thought made her chest tighten.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft's lip curled with frustration as he sighed, "for your own safety and that of those you faked your death for. Every moment you spend here you endanger yourself and them, you silly child." Mycroft played aloof, but just like his brother it seemed, he was capable of genuine concerned.

"Allowing for sentimentality to cloud your good judgment in your advanced age, Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered back at his brother. "You know full well that my _interference_ was the determining factor in apprehending those criminals." He brushed a strand of hair off his pant leg and gazed coolly back at his brother.

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was silky, quiet and dangerous; "I believe you're the one blinded by emotion." He turned slowly towards Layla and then back again. Sherlock's nose twitched and Mycroft smiled. He'd won the tilt. "Now, Layla." He pressed his palms together and turned back to Layla diplomatically, voice returned to authorial volume and tone and sardonic grin set in place. "I believe you knew more about Darren Kellen than you revealed in your interview on Monday. I understand that was because my little brother had yet to inform you of our situation, so I understand. What you should have told me on any account was that he had been separating documents from the set, that is _always_ against protocol. Understand?"

Layla nodded, wide-eyed and still speechless at the elder Holmes. She had never seen anyone disarm Sherlock so swiftly or absolutely, the detective still sat in silence, his face marred with the nose crunch of contempt. _If Mycroft achieved anything for certain, it was dis-ingratiating me to Sherlock. He won't touch me now with a ten foot pole. I'm a weakness. Fuck._

"Next order of business, for once my younger brother and I agree about a topic and we both would like to discuss it with you." Mycroft leaned forward in his seat and locked Layla with the 'didactic' stare, _great, he's about to drop some knowledge_. "Following his arrest and the day after you're de-briefing, Kellen was bailed out of his holding cell, a procedure neither condoned nor usual. He was, after all, a national threat. However, someone made an enormous mistake and allowed him to be releasde for a moderate sum of cash to a," he glanced down and the papers in front of him, "a mister Moran."

Layla caught the flash of attention leap across Sherlock's features. He was now no longer staring daggers into Mycroft's left eye, he was engaged and attentive.

"He has since returned to America, we are aware of Moran and a man under a clear alias flying into Kennedy Tuesday morning. We assume that man to be Kellen. Therefore, Kellen, along with this accomplice, potentially a crime syndicate operative, is acting freely in the United States. For this reason both Sherlock and I have decided that it is no longer a permissible plan for you to holiday in America."

"What? Uh, no. That's not okay. I'm going to see my baby sister's absurd wedding, and you two are not going to stop me. I don't care if coming to this agreement is universe shattering or not, I'm going." She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Layla, do please be reasonable. Sherlock, you can persuade her, surely." He nodded Sherlock towards Layla and simpered coaxingly.

"Actually, Mycroft, I've since changed my mind." Sherlock uncrossed his legs and stood from his chair with a stand offish sniff. "I no longer think Kellen would return to his home town or to any location holding Dr. McManis. She knows his situation and would alert the authorities. He has no reason so pressing as to endanger his anonymity." He swept the coat off of the back of his chair and donned it smugly. "Good day, Mycroft. Dr. McManis." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft and the inclined his head towards Layla before striding swiftly out the 'back' door.

"Uh, yeah… I'll be in touch Mycroft, better run as well!" Layla edged around the snarling elder Holmes and barreled down the private hall after Sherlock. She had no idea why he had insisted on calling her 'Dr. McManis' or why he had left without waiting for her, well she knew to expect the latter, but still. When she reached the main street he was nowhere to be found.

"Shit." She sighed and pulled out her phone. "I guess Mycroft really got to him, doubt I'll be seeing him anytime soon." She muttered to herself as she pulled up Alex's contact information. "Hey, Alex. Change of plans. I'm going home tomorrow."

* * *

Layla was in the midst of mental packing when she hurtled into the entrance hall of 221 and smashed into John.

"Oh Jesus, John, I'm so sorry. I was so absorbed in myself I didn't even see you." She bent down to collect the mail he'd been holding and stood back up to a find a rather sober John Watson.

"Not a problem, Layla. Busy day?" He looked at her with reddened, puffy eyes. _Wait, has John been crying?_

"Yeah, something like that. Mycroft just trying to spoil my vacation. You okay?" She handed back the jumbled up envelopes and creased her brow with concern when John smiled sadly.

"Yeah, I'm glad to see you've not realized. Erm, I was at the gravesite. Six months passed." He was staring at his shoes caked with mud and flexing his left hand anxiously.

"Oh John." Layla's shoulders wilted and she pulled the doctor into a shaky hug. He may not have been crying any longer but he had been before and even soldiers need a good hug sometimes. "I can't believe I haven't noticed." Admittedly she could believe it and not believe it at the same time. That meant she was half a year away from that unmitigated disaster of a day. Of a month really.

"No, it's fine. It's good. You shouldn't be lingering on it, and neither should I." He breathed in deeply and put on a bravely happy face. "Have a lovely holiday back home." He turned smartly around and marched up the stairs to 221B.

"Thanks John, take care." Layla said it too quietly to be heard but it made her feel better all the same. _Maybe he's _not_ doing as well as I'd thought._ She chewed thoughtfully on her lip and then slouched down into her basement. No Sherlock. _He must be off sulking_. She flipped on the lights and set about gathering things for a couple weeks back in America.

"Shit." She stared down into her empty suitcase as she remembered that she really didn't _want_ to go home. She had just felt obligated. All Mycroft's 'forbidding' had accomplished was to make her stubbornly determined to do just what was forbidden.

"Knock, knock." Mrs. Hudson's sing-song voice floated through the apartment and pulled Layla out of the depressing wave of images flittering through her head: her sister married, living in her childhood home, making her parents' bedroom into a tantric sex cave. She shivered and then turned to smile at the landlady. "Hello, love. Just a little envelope left here for you." She tottered inside and extended a blank envelope towards Layla.

"Ah, thanks Mrs. Hudson." She gently took the envelope and turned it over, definitely blank. Terrifying memories came pouring into her head again of blank packages filled with pills and lies. "Did you see who left it?"

"I did indeed, he rang the front bell. Nice young man, an American with a hat." She smiled sweetly and then bustled out of Layla's way.

"Thanks again." _American? Could it have been Henry? Please let it have been Henry._ Layla slowly, fearfully peeled back the fold of the envelope and pulled out two slips of paper. Not slips, tickets. Airline tickets to be exact, for eight the next morning. This inside flap of the envelope held Sherlock's telltale scrawl: _Leave the animal with Mrs. Hudson. Don't do anything idiotic. Don't contact me, I'll be away._ She sighed and set the tickets on the table, Sherlock had taken off and told her to do the same. She had been correct earlier, she wouldn't be seeing him soon.

"I'm going to regret this, I can just feel it." She set her first piece of clothing at the bottom of the suitcase, the one thing she always brought with her, Sherlock's silk dressing gown.

"Regret what?" Alex pushed the still open door wider and peeked in. "Sorry to sneak up, the front door was open as well."

"Oh, no. You're fine. Just realizing what an enormous mistake going back is. I haven't seen half the people who are going to be there in over five years." She frowned at the dressing gown and tried to decide what to add to it. Right now she wanted to just pack it and go home to sulk in her childhood bedroom. She didn't need any other clothes for that.

"It'll be fine, Lay. I've convinced Henry to come back with me—us. You know, go to the wedding with us and all. He doesn't really get along with Teresa but he promised to be good." She leaned over the suitcase to stare into it with her best friend. "What're we looking at?"

"Dressing gown."

"I can see that. Why?"

"I'm trying to decide how long I can get by just wearing it."

Alex giggled heartily and then pranced over to Layla's wardrobe. "I'd have to say not at all! Come on you have some lovely clothing here, let's get it ready to show off to those bastards back home!" Alex yanked out shirt after dress after blouse tossing them with commentary on when they should be worn at Layla who sat dejectedly on the bed holding the dressing gown.

"Okay, what is it with that robe? If you don't get over it, I'm going to take it away." She skipped back to Layla and tried to pry the gown from her clasp. It didn't work. "Layla! Come on, snap out of this melodramatic pit you've fallen into. What is wrong, really?"

"It's Sherlock's." Alex dropped the robe like it was made of snakes.

"What?" Her voice was a whisper.

"The gown, it's Sherlock's—was Sherlock's. He lent it to me when I had my accident and I never gave it back." She stared emptily at the black silk in her fingers and wondered when she would see him next, if ever. _Don't contact me._ His note had been pretty explicit that it wouldn't be when she wanted.

"Why are you bringing it?"

"Comfort, I guess. It's been six months today. I'd forgotten. John mentioned it, he'd been at the grave, crying." Layla stroked the material and thought about the irony of the day's events. _It's not really an irony dumby. It's an unfortunate coincidence that he abandoned you six months ago and today._

"Oh Layla!" Alex burst into sympathetic tears and tackled her friend in a back breaking hug. "I'm sorry sweety I didn't know! I wouldn't have teased, promise!"

"Please, Alex." Layla pushed her away and gently refolded the robe before setting it back in the case. "Let's just get this packed and move on. I have the tickets already, they're over there." She pointed to her desk and began folding the other clothes lying on her bed.

"Eight tomorrow! Gross—I mean great, thanks for covering the fair." Alex beamed indulgently at Layla who had glanced up at Alex's initial cry of dismay.

"Yeah, not a big deal, weaseled some money out of Mycroft." _Half true_. "Just make it up to me by helping me pack. I absolutely hate this part."

"Sure, yes. No prob." Alex enthusiastically folded up a dress that had fallen to the floor and then flitted around the apartment gathering clothing, shoes, you name it. Meanwhile, Layla's phone buzzed lethargically. "You should charge that, sounds like the battery is dying."

"Yeah, thanks, Lexy." Layla only used such a diminutive when she wanted to cajole Alex, it worked; she smiled happily and forgot to quiz Layla about the contents of the message.

_If you do encounter Kellen send ** to this number, nothing more._ Definitely from Sherlock and there was definitely something wrong with him, or if not wrong at least different.

"Alright, let's get this shit together so I can seem to have _my _shit together." Layla set her favorite pair of slacks into the suitcase and hustled over to the wardrobe. If there was going to be any chance for her not to kill someone on this holiday home, she needed to make herself feel superior to it and them. That sped her packing, and knowing that Sherlock hadn't abandoned her forever, just until Mycroft's biting remark no longer stung.


	9. Over the Hills and Far Away

"Good God, that flight was perfectly horrendous." Layla was cranky. So cranky that the prospect of getting black-out drunk didn't even soothe her.

"Oh, come on Layla, it wasn't really that bad." Alex, chipper as ever, had not had as bad a time of it, but then again, she wasn't predisposed to histrionic fits like Layla was. That's how Sherlock would have seen it, anyhow. For now, Layla just thought her friend was being pernicious.

"Yes, it was, you know it was. I got groped by an old, blind guy. Twice. Twice, Alex." She turned around to shake her two fingers at her friend. Alex was easily five paces behind Layla and struggling to keep up, an unusual event since by this point Layla would have normally toppled over something, or nothing. "Not to mention we were in an airtight metal tube for nine odd hours with someone who clearly had IBS. I'm just glad to be breathing the free air again." She skirted around and potential trip hazard and continued hauling her enormous suitcase through the Raleigh-Durham terminal. "Not that it's going to be free for long, since we're about to be choked by the noxious perfection of Teresa and her marital bliss."

"Well… at least you escaped work and Mycroft." Alex ventured to improve upon Layla's fast deteriorating mood. "And a week early!"

"Tchsh, yeah no—" Layla scoffed and then spun around to inspect Alex. "—hey, your opinion of him has certainly changed." She narrowed her eyes at Alex who just smiled with a shrug.

"Yeah, well, I decided that pursuing that was kind of like poking a bear. A clever, powerful bear that could devour your soul without lifting a finger or so much as opening his mouth. Too intense for me, too much risk. I decided I could stand to wait for someone more suitable."

"Damn right you could." Henry pulled up behind them as they stood in the middle of the food court and smiled widely. Layla rolled her eyes and turned to continue her hell bent march to the transport exit.

"Oh, good. Henry made his flight." There was no attempt to hide the sarcasm, it was that sort of day.

"Yep, and I beat your earlier one which speaking of, thanks for inviting me to your super secret flight party." Layla mimicked Henry's voice under her breath but kept walking, she could mock him later.

"You didn't miss much, just a blind pervert and an unfortunate case of gas. Oh and Layla having a neurotic fit."

"Hmmmm, sounds… great. On second thought, don't worry about not telling me."

"Why would we need to tell you about anything? I can't believe you're even coming. Teresa annoys the living shit out of you—" Layla parked her suitcase and began to search for some cash to convert into American dollars at the counter. She turned just in time to see Henry wrap his arm around Alex's waist in a quick and intimate hug. "Oh sweet cannoli! You guys hooked up didn't you?"

"Now, Layla—" Alex responded coaxingly but it was too late, Henry's beaming grin was too good a tell.

"You nasty fucks." A woman with her small child glared at Layla as they passed by but she was too perturbed to care.

"They sure were." Henry chuckled when Alex elbowed him in the ribs. Layla changed her money and then stomped off with her suitcase and a stream of angry ranting trailing behind her.

"Ugh. I hate, hate, hate you. Both, I hate you both. Getting your canoodles on when you're supposed to visiting me and comforting me with my horrible disintegrating life, you—you big selfish bums! And what do I have that hasn't fallen apart, huh? Mycroft, Queen of the bitching on my case twenty-four-seven!" She was drawing the attention of a growing crowd as she wheeled past terminal after terminal waving her arms and doing little to lower her voice.

"Yeesh, that's rough. You can just flat get tired of that windbag, not the sort you guys had on the plane though. Mycroft just talks a lot, very fond of his own voice." Henry piped up to interrupt Layla's tirade.

"You would know, Henry." Layla pulled her case to the curb and waved a hand out for a taxi. "You work with him so closely and, if I recall correctly, you're the reason I even know the man, thanks." Layla hissed and then threw open the just arrived cab's door.

The cab ride to Layla's childhood home wasn't any more pleasant than the rest of their travel day. Her house lay on the outskirts of the Chapel Hill area in a century's old neighborhood full of old money and dark pasts. Her house, like most of the rest, had been a plantation home. A colonial from the early days of the nation which had been kept within her family all the while. It was just one of her family's numerous possessions. The land it was built on was even in their name, all two hundred acres of it. In reality, Layla's family owned the majority of the property rights of their neighborhood.

Unfortunately, the age of the house had subjected it to some unique issues. Central air hadn't been installed in it until Layla's early childhood and when her parents had died ten years before, the rest of the house's little nagging problems had become big issues. Layla had been away in undergraduate studies when her parents had been killed in a car accident and her sister, Teresa, nine at the time, had been sent to live with Layla in Boston. So the house had just been left its own devices for just over a decade and that decade had been unkind. Now that Teresa had moved back into it, some of the structural issues had been resolved, at her parent's bank account's expense. The leak in the piping was repaired and the front porch rid of termites but when Layla, Alex and Henry pulled up late in the night it was even clear in the dark that the back terrace of the house was still collapsed.

Layla sighed, she had hoped that Teresa's exorbitant spending would have resolved the back rooms, she had really wanted to enter via the old servant's entrance and avoid all the hihowareya's. She had, after all, gone a solid three years without speaking to her sister. Teresa had made a series of decisions upon turning sixteen that Layla did not endorse and, as a result of Layla's rebukes, had moved out of her sister's home and gone to live with their aunt and uncle in Maryland. Apparently they too had pissed her off because here she was living back at home.

"Okay, it's going to be fine Layla. They'll now that we're tired and will let us all go to bed, so just put on a brave face and deal with the introductions and then we can go to sleep." Alex patted Layla on the arm as she gazed up at the giant façade of the house. The white columns glowed in the moonlight and were yellowed by the gleam of the porch lights.

"Hmph." She grunted and paid the cab driver. "Let's just get the over with." Her suitcase was heavy but that didn't stop her from flinging it out of the trunk and then yanking it up the sloping driveway.

"LAYLA! Welcome home, I'm SO happy to see you. Oh, and Alex and Henry, what a surprise! I didn't expect you guys for over a week!" Teresa stood framed in the light of the large doorway, her long lean frame hardly covered by the sad excuse for a dress she was wearing. Layla paused on the way up her front steps and pinched the bridge of her nose. From the very tone of her sister's voice she could tell that she was not going to be able to get to bed soon, or possibly without killing her.

"Hi, hi, hi! Oh little Teresa, you look so happy! So where is he, where's Doug? Let's meet him!" Alex skipped up and across the enormous porch and hugged Teresa tightly around the middle.

"Oh, he's out. Baseball stuff, I don't know. You'll meet him eventually." Teresa waved the three of them inside and shut the huge wooden door.

"Really Teresa? Half past twelve at night and your fiancé is still out? It's a Wednesday." Layla didn't make contact with her sister as she strode past and over to the service stairs. She pushed her suitcase into the service lift and then trudged up the stairs without a single word.

"She's— in a pleasant mood." Layla could still hear them, Teresa and Alex that is, chatting in the grand entrance as she manually pulled the service lift's rope, the wheel had broken.

"Oh, she's just bushed from the travel." Alex's voice was irritatingly happy.

"No, she hates being here, seeing me and dealing with the fact that I've taken over this place and become an adult without her help." Teresa sounded far too pleased with herself and Layla snarled as she hoisted the case out of the lift.

"Oh, I don't know…" Alex was making peace, well, trying to.

"No, it's true, but nonetheless I'm glad you guys are here so early, you can come to all my parties." Layla slammed her bedroom door shut and blocked out the rest of their conversation. She didn't want to deal with it anymore, any of it. Now more than ever, she missed her life from six months ago. If she had left a 'happy, domestic scene' at 221 from back then for this she could've handled this.

"Fucking life." Layla unzipped her case and pulled out the first few garments, tossing them carelessly on the wooden floor beside her. "Fucking sister." She flung the next handful of shirts and bottoms across the room. "Fucking house." Her fine dresses went flying to the nearest corner. "Fucking wedding." She finally reached the bottom of the suitcase and the thing she had been searching for, the black silk dressing gown. "Fucking clothes." She practically ripped her outfit off, soiled with ten hours or more of travel and the various smells entailed in such. "Fucking Sherlock." She wrapped herself in the robe and cinched it tight before padding wearily to her four-poster bed and collapsed onto it. "Fucking Teresa and her fucking lies." For all her 'surprise' at their arrival Teresa had certainly taken care to make sure the bedrooms were prepared for their arrival. Layla swaddled herself in the fresh sheets and sunk into the squishy breadth of the bed.

"Layla, hey." Alex whispered into the darkened room and disturbed Layla's fitful sleep.

"What?" She croaked and pulled the covers up to her eyes when the lights flickered on.

"Just wanted—" Alex struggled to pull the covers away from her friend's face. "—I just wanted to tell you that we'll be next door in my old guest room and—you're in that robe." Alex shook her head sadly when she finally uncovered Layla.

"That's delightful." Layla opened one squinting eye and glared at Alex.

"Yeah, well… good night I suppose." Alex hurried out of the room and left Layla to sulk alone in the dark.

The next week was miserable. Layla regretted every single second. She regretted it so much that she actually yearned after being emotionally belittled by Mycroft. All of it made her separation from Sherlock all the more stark. She spent the majority of every day being pulled around on various wedding errands by the over excited pair of Teresa and Alex, her phone in hand and waiting for a text from her disappeared detective. None came.

The bachelorette party happened far earlier than Layla would have expected, a good four days before the wedding proper. It was the most miserable of the affairs, full of trashy gifts, drinking and uncouth behavior. Very much a younger woman's last hoorah and Layla was terribly unhappy the entire time. In fact, she spent the greater portion of the party staring deadly at a spot far off in front of her and imagining how Sherlock could make all these caddy women feel like absolute shit in a matter of instants.

The bridal shower was only slightly less abhorrent. At least it was mildly more civilized. The variety of the women invited was composed of female relatives of all ages, so Teresa was required to keep it G rated.

"See, Layla, I told you this one wouldn't be so bad." Alex leaned next to Layla on the long marble counter of the dining room. "Look, even Aunt Marie came, isn't it nice to see her."

"Charming." Layla sipped her tea and surveyed the room, she knew everyone there and she had no interest whatsoever in speaking with a single one of them. Alex was the only one worth her time. "I wish Cecil could've come." Cecil was her cousin, five years her senior, who had lived with her in her young childhood. His parents, the very same Teresa had ran away to, had left him in Layla's parent's care for close to six years while they travelled the world and he and Layla had grown very close. By this point, it had been years since she'd seen him. He had, as a inheritor of several million dollars much like the rest of her family, attracted many women and lost them all in that time and Layla was eager to see him and how he was doing alone of her family.

"You know that he couldn't have, this is a women's party." Layla grumbled and glared at the women milling throughout her home.

"Stupid gender divisions. He should have been here, I actually can interact with him." Layla chewed on a tooth pick and fell silent again. Alex rolled her eyes with a sigh and leaned off the bar to leave but Layla grabbed her arm.

"Wait, who is that?" She pointed towards the one person she didn't recognize. A slight woman with sharp features and exquisite clothing, even by her family's high standards.

"Oh, that's Lillian, Cecil's new lady. Lillian Langley." Alex slipped away and Layla continued watching this Lillian carefully. She was stunning and it made Layla uncomfortable, something about her seemed off, maybe threatening. _Sure I'm protective of my cousin, but that woman just seems too gorgeous for Cece, she must be digging._ Layla kept her eye on this woman for the next ten minutes before deciding to go introduce herself. She wanted to speak to her, learn her character. She was too slow on the uptake, however. When she turned back around from setting down her glass and toothpick she saw Lillian hand Teresa a small wrapped box with a wink and then excuse herself. _Damn it, she's taking her handbag, she must be leaving._

"Something wrong, Layla?" Alex had returned with a finger sandwich and was trying to follow Layla's line of sight.

"Yes, I didn't get to meet that Lillian person."

"Oh, you'll get a chance at the wedding."

The following day proved Alex correct.

"Oh, Layla, the lime green looks stunning on you; I'm so pleased with the group shot! Look, look we look like a bouquet of flowers." Teresa swept over to Layla as she sat at the grand table in the reception hall. The younger sister held a digital camera in her grasps and pushed the glowing screen into Layla's face.

"Yes. Lovely." _Actually we look like a set of highlighters. I'm so glad she didn't choose the neon pink for me._ Layla tried to lean away from the camera three inches in front of her face and grimaced at Alex seated happily several tables away. Alex shrugged and drew a smile onto her face with her fingers, indicating for Layla to do so as well. As her sister pranced off to force the shots on other people, Layla leaned forward and tried to tune out all the noise of the reception's terrible music and chatting, as well as the encroaching hoard of negative thoughts in her head. A particularly cliché song blared over the speakers and the rest of the high table cleared leaving Layla alone to her brooding.

"Dr. McManis, is it not?" Layla's head jerked up at the jarring sound of a British accent. She had missed the sound.

"Indeed." Layla stretched out her hand to shake the hand of the woman sitting next to her, the Lillian Langley from the bridal shower. She was even more intriguing today, exotic even. Her outfit, a red silk dress with asymmetrical edges and a pair of black Louboutins, was telling enough. Layla eyed her carefully and waited for her to speak again, for whatever reason, this woman in particular still felt like a threat.

"Tell me then, Dr. McManis, how is the famous 221 Baker St. treating you? From what I hear you were a consort of our famous, late detective from that address." Her red lips slipped into a curving grin. Layla held her eyes for a second and then smiled as naturally as she could.

"It's thrilling. You are well informed." Layla withdrew her hand and the two women sat in silence, looking each other over. It was almost tangible that they were sizing each other up.

"Yes, yes, good. I'm glad you've gone ahead and found each other. I knew you'd get along!" Teresa plopped down onto the chair nearest Layla and threw her arms around her sister. "This is Lillian Langley, Cecil's girlfriend and emigrant from what is now your neck of the woods, Layla."

"So I've been told." Layla tried to squirm out from under Teresa's arm but her younger sister was more than eager to hold her still.

"Oh terrific, so you know a bit about her? I told her some of your life story, I know you don't mind, and she seemed to know about where you live and stuff. Neat, huh?" Teresa smiled dazzlingly and patted Layla's shoulder.

"Yeah… neat." Layla didn't return the contented grin that spread further across Lillian's face.

"Okey-dokey, you two have fun. I'm off to samba!" Teresa scampered off and left Layla and Lillian in competitive silence. The two resumed their stare off but Lillian was too good; Layla eventually became uncomfortable and ventured a question.

"So, how'd you meet our Cecil?" Despite Teresa's assumption, Layla actually knew nothing about this woman and that fact was seriously bothering her.

"Oh I was the nude for his figure sketching class. Quite the artist _our_ Cecil. Has a good eye for bone structure and shading. Very… observant." Lillian traced the line of her crimson lips with a straw as she spoke, gazing through Layla as though looking back in time. It gave Layla the shivers.

"What do you do professionally, I mean besides modeling, Ms. Langley?"

"Professionally…?" Lillian grinned again, that same devious curve. "For now, I manage a lingerie boutique, but really I… dabble. How about you?" The straw was now between her teeth.

"Oh, Teresa didn't tell you? She tells everyone about my melodrama but not my job… honestly." Layla shook her head as she watched her younger sister do the bunny hop across the dance floor, _what else should I expect from a child?_ "I'm a classicist turned cryptographer."

"Hm. Like a mystery do you? A challenge? Me too, Dr. McManis, me too." Lillian leaned in closer to Layla and gazed up at her from under dark painted eyelashes. Layla stuttered back and edged away to reassert her personal space.

"Indeed. How long have you been in America?"

"Oh, about eighteen months. Needed a change of scenery." She tilted her head slightly to the side and continued carefully observing Layla.

"Ah, that's nice…" Layla scooted even further away. She had never felt another woman's gaze so intensely. Luckily, her cousin Cecil came up to break the tension.

"Cecil, sweet. I'd like the rabbit, please." Lillian took the plate of rabbit from her date and set it down in front of her.

"Oh, hi, Cece, how's life treating you?" Layla turned to face her cousin and proceeded to ignore his date.

"Splendidly. I'm glad you've met Lily. You two getting along?" Cecil sat down beside Lillian and placed the plate of fish in front of him. Layla opened her mouth to respond, with an equivocal answer, but was spoken over by Lillian.

"Oh yes, my love, we have _so _much in common. So much to share…" Lillian turned a smiling eye on Layla and then patted Cecil on the arm. "Come on Cecil, let's go have dinner." With one last pointed look over her shoulder, Lillian rose from the high table and strode back to their seating assignments. Cecil squeezed Layla's hand and gathered up both plates.

"Chat at you later, Layla." He strode off as well leaving Layla feeling perfectly unnerved. She had the distinct sensation that she had just held a conversation with a black widow and her victim.

"Alright Layla? You look like you've just seen a ghost." Alex settled down across from Layla and picked at some of the table settings.

"Yeah, just a bit unsettled. I don't like that Langley woman, not one bit." She took a sip of her champagne and watched her cousin and his new amore. "She's alluring but there's something off about her. Like her allure is malicious, bewitching and dangerous." Layla shivered involuntarily and glanced back at Alex. Her friend was shaking her head sadly at her.

"You just can't stand being the second best vixen in the room, Layla."

"Maybe, actually, I hope that's what it is. I just—" Layla cringed as the microphone screeched over the loud speaker.

"ALRIGHT ALL YOU SINGLE LADIES, HEAD DOWN TO THE DANCE FLOOR SO WE CAN TOSS THE BOUQUET!" Layla sunk lower down into her chair to avoid the dismally demeaning ritual but Alex hoisted her onto her feet and then yanked her towards the growing crowd of younger women.

"ELDER SISTER IN THE FRONT!" One of her _kinder_ relatives shouted from the audience and she was jostled up to the front line of single girls. Seconds later she was clutching the bouquet of flowers in an attempt to save her face from them.

"Congratulations, Layla. It's just too bad you aren't the first." Layla cringed as Lillian's whispered words resonated with her memory. She turned to find her soon to be least favorite person standing inches from her face.

"The what?"

"The first in your family… you know, to get married." Lillian's sly smile only worsened Layla feeling of being stalked like some prey animal. Suddenly the coincidences were too much for her and Layla decided to act upon her suspicions.

"Oh, I'm okay with it. How about you, Irene?" Are you an elder sibling late to marry as well?" Layla, confident in her assertion, looked 'Lillian' square in the eye with all her verve.

"Ha. Layla dear, I think it's time we two had a chat." If possible, Irene's smirk was even more wicked than 'Lillian's'. She sauntered out the back door and Layla followed cautiously. Once outside Irene turned on Layla, prowling around her as she leant against the building. "You're not as clever as I'd thought you'd be to capture _him_, it took you far too many hints to catch on, you are however rather intelligent _and_ fetching. I suppose I can see why he likes you. I like you—oh, go ahead be snarky. I've been waiting for your signature wit."

"You certainly get around." Layla crossed her arms and kept her eyes on Irene's hands. She had no idea what the point of a private conversation was but she absolutely did not trust Irene. "What is it exactly you want with my cousin?"

Irene pulled out her phone and glanced over it quickly. "You know. Comfort, stability, money. He isn't needy or hand-sy, in fact, he hasn't even tried to sleep with me yet which is…" Irene tapped the phone to her lips and blinked with a sultry simper towards Layla, "…convenient. He's not really my type." She advanced towards Layla who, in turn, backed tighter against the wall.

_Oh Jesus, she's… she's advancing on me. I think she's checking me out. Oh god she's looking at my boobs, she's looking at my boobs. Oh god she's reaching out, she's going to touch me. What do I do? I don't want this, I've never been hit on by a woman before. I don't know how to react. I wasn't prepared for this!_ Layla could hear herself gulp as she swallowed the last of the saliva in her mouth. Irene ran one dainty finger across Layla's collarbone.

"But you, you Layla are much more my cup of tea." She crowded further into Layla's personal space, her face becoming more and more predatory. "How's life without Sherlock? Found anyone… new yet?" She quirked an eyebrow and trailed her finger lower, closer to Layla's cleavage. Layla gasped and edged away, avoiding the advances of Irene and eliciting a sigh and an eyeroll.

"Oh, but that's right, you still like men," her eyes widened with exasperation, "I forgot." She stepped away and began fiddling with her phone again. "Who is it now? Colin is his name?" She smirked at Layla's surprise. "Looks an awful lot like our favorite detective," feigned innocence flicked across her features but quickly vanished, "especially without that nasty mask. Those cheekbones…" Irene turned back to Layla with narrowed eyes and curving lips, she was enjoying this. Layla, on the other hand, was not.

"Are you getting somewhere or are you just going to continue flaunting your knowledge of _our_ secrets?" Layla crossed her arms tighter over her chest and glared at Irene.

"Oooh, hit a soft spot there, did we? I should've remembered you haven't seen him in a while, makes a girl touchy." Layla jerked away as Irene tapped her nose patronizingly. "You shouldn't worry about him though, he's fine." The fluttering of her eyelashes sent jolts of electric jealousy through Layla's stomach.

"You would know then, would you?" She tried to keep her voice even and her tone neutral.

"Maybe. He's been… in touch. Needed some resources over here." _Stay calm she's taunting me to win her game, whatever game it is. Don't react, that'll just encourage her._ Layla swallowed hard at Irene's sneer.

"And you could get those things for him, hmm?"

"Yes, well I know whom to ask." Layla took a shuttering breath at Irene's nonchalant shrug. She certainly had some upsetting qualities in common with Sherlock.

"Excellent. Good, great, I'm glad he's… fine." Layla sputtered out a response and shook the image of the two of them together from her head.

"Feeling jealous?" Irene's eyes twinkled with vicious delight.

"Only a bit, but thanks. I suppose I was worried—" Layla moved to head back into the dance hall fed up Irene and her psychological chess game.

"What's it like?"

"What?" Layla paused by the door and spun around to glare at Irene. She wasn't expecting the look of genuine curiosity.

"How was he? How was being with him?" Her delicate eyebrows knitted briefly and betrayed what was probably the first real emotion Irene had chanced in a while. Regret.

Layla cringed at the sympathy she felt for her but hesitated to share it; this could be another ploy. She squared her shoulders and looked Irene dead in the eye, "Life-changing." As the crafty smile spread once again over Irene's face Layla turned again, this time to actually go back inside.

"I'll see you again, soon, Dr. McManis."

"I doubt it." Layla marched straight back indoors without a second glance. Needless to say she didn't enjoy the remainder of the reception.

"For the love of all that is holy, I put up with your party and your pictures and your absurd spending, now just let me wallow in the absolutely dismal depression that has overtaken me." Layla glared out from the covers of her four-poster bed at the silhouette of her sister in the door way.

"Oh come on Layla, just come see us off! All I want is one sweet little picture of us driving away as happy newlyweds!" Teresa set her hands on her hips and stomped inside Layla's room. "Come on, I need you sissy!" She pulled fruitlessly at Layla's bed clothes.

"Oh just go ask Alex, she'll be glad to do it." Layla latched on even harder her sheets and kneed her sister off the bed.

"I would but—" Teresa giggled and winked at Layla through the darkness "—well she's busy. Busy with things."

"Ick. I could have lived without knowing that." Layla snuggled deeper into the bed and rolled away from her sister. The idea of Alex and Henry smultzing next door made her even less inclined to be conscious in that world.

"Pleeeeeeeeease."

"Don't you have a maid of honor for this sort of nonsense? Isn't that what she does?"

The lights flicked on and Layla peeked her head out to check on what Teresa was doing.

"But _you_ were my maid of honor. Remember? You stood next to me."

"FINE." Layla lunged out of bed, pulled the dressing gown tighter around her, and stomped out of the room.

"What is that ratty thing you're always wearing?" Teresa wavered on the spot as Layla whipped around to stick her finger in her younger sister's much higher face.

"It's not ratty, and it's none of your business." She snarled up at Teresa and poked her chest threateningly.

"Okay, okay, sorry! Jeez…" Teresa held her hands up in surrender.

About six minutes later Layla trudged back up the stairs in the most sour mood and toppled back into her nest to sulk forever. Her sister had left for her honeymoon and she didn't have a flight back home for another twenty four hours, the rest of her stay in America was not exactly promising to yield happy results.

"I'll just sleep the rest of this time off, it's a nightmare enough as it is… Ah bed, my bed." She flipped off all the lights, pulled the shades and closed the curtains around her bed. She was in total and complete darkness, it was delicious.

Minutes later, or maybe more, Layla had drifted off almost immediately, a beam of light fell through her bed curtains and onto Layla's face. She scrunched her eyes shut tighter and snarled.

"Oh fucking hell, I took your motherfucking photograph, now get out of here on your goddamn honeymoon and leave me the fuck alone. I swear."

"As ever, Layla, your charm is startling." Layla's mind shot to life and she sat straight up in her bed. Sherlock's voice was not what she had expected.

"What are you doing here?" She threw open the bed curtains and peered around the room. Sherlock was seated in her childhood rocking chair flipping through the pages of her edition of _Jane Eyre_. He looked up complaisantly from the book and frowned at her.

"You could have done with different novels as a child." He shook the book at her and set it back on the shelf. "They did nothing to relieve your natural penchant for hysterics."

"As usual Sherlock Holmes, you avoid the question and aim for an insult, but get on with it. I'm not in the mood. Especially since you so despise my dramatic tendencies." She spat at him and then regretted it. Fighting fire with fire never worked, certainly not when the source of fire was Sherlock. Sherlock however, just exhaled and pulled out his phone.

"I see you and she didn't get along, not that I expected that you would, but I at least thought you could manage her with a trifle more dignity. Displaying jealousy? It's below you." He shook his head but didn't accost her with his icy glare. In fact, he didn't even look at her.

"Yeah, met Irene. Hated every second of it. Felt utter and all-consuming jealousy that she had seen you and I hadn't. Shoot me. Now, seriously, what do you want? I'm running on very few hours of sleep and I'm not willing to play any more games tonight, had enough of that with your _girlfriend_. Tell me, and get out or just get out so that I can go to sleep and be just that much closer to returning home." After her weeks of misery and her discussion with Irene, Layla's previously longed for meeting with Sherlock was suddenly spoiled by distrust and hurt and she wanted it over as soon as possible.

"You can't go home." Sherlock had stood and was walking the perimeter of her room inspecting her old furniture and belongings.

"What do you mean I can't go home? I'm going home, this isn't it anymore and I have nowhere else to go beside 221, so unless you have a better option, I am going home." Layla buried her head in her pillow and snapped her eyes shut again. _Maybe I'm dreaming, he might not even be here._

"You'll have to live here for some time. London is no longer safe for you." _If this is a dream, it's a horrible joke sub-conscious, so just stop, now._ The dream didn't fade and Layla pinched herself for good measure. She conceded defeat to the malicious workings of the universe and sat back up.

"What in the world could have happened that would require that I stay here in my own personal hell?" She scooted to the edge of the bed and leaned out so that she could watch Sherlock's pacing.

"Mycroft has lost control of certain persons who are more than a threat to you, and to me." He opened a dusty music box and smiled softly when Vivaldi's _Summer_ came tinkling out. "Kellen has let slipped your personal information and the flat is now under watch. Mrs. Hudson has already been confronted in front of 221. Moreover, it seems that someone recognized me as I was leaving the country." Layla sucked in a shocked breath and interrupted Sherlock's explanation.

"How?"

"I, unfortunately, don't know. But they threatened Mycroft with exposure. He parried and nothing else has come of it, so presumably they were only partially convinced of my identity. The point is, people are looking for us both, so you can't go back. Not now at least." He scooped up a plastic bag off the floor and held it out to her.

"What is it?" She leaned over to take the bag and dumped two boxes of hair dye onto the bed. "Uh, no. I'm not dying my hair and I'm not dying yours. No." She hurled the boxes across the room and glared back at Sherlock's glower.

"Have you lost all sense of poise, woman?"

"Ugh! Fuck off Sherlock, I've had possibly the most demeaning set of weeks of my life, a day full of deceit and misery and now I've just found out that I can't escape the source of all of these things because I can't go home. After all of that, you come in and demand that I change my hair and dye yours for you? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Poise isn't the issue here. If you want poise, why don't you go back to Irene, god knows she has loads of it." She was less than an inch from his face and shouting but he didn't budge at all, staring down his nose at her in disgust.

"This is about her. You are the most irrational, tempestuous—what about my interaction with her causes you this much angst?"

"Why her though, why? You can be in contact with her, hell, you spill your super hush-hush secret that you are alive but you can't contact me at all to say that you are actually still living and well? I didn't even need to know where you were, just that you were somewhere breathing and not bleeding everywhere." Layla could feel tears budding in her eyes and viciously smashed her knuckles into them to stem the flow. They were unwanted signs of her despicable emotions and the less fodder Sherlock had, the better.

"I needed some assistance. She has experience in being _dead_ abroad and all of the materials that requires. Why does it matter?" His lips drew tight and his eyes hard as he noticed the not-so-well hidden tears in Layla's eyes.

"Because you met with her, I assume alone, and endured whatever display of sexual advances from her. God only knows what, I mean she hit on _me_ today, who fucking knows what she would try with you. She is so fond of you." Layla blinked again letting the tears of hurt and now anger spill down her cheeks. "Now, now that you've told her, it's pretty clear that I _really_ am not special to you. Mycroft knows, Irene knows and you're frequently in contact with both, but me, you only come to me when you need some menial assistance. I'm still just your plaything. Someone convenient to use."

Sherlock leaned away from her and narrowed his eyes at Layla. "Really, Layla, do you actually think that little of me and yourself? Pull yourself together—"

"Out." Layla pointed to the door and refused to look Sherlock in the eye. "Get out."

"Layla, please, I need you." Sherlock leaned towards her and stared unblinkingly at her elusive eyes.

"Stop toying with my emotions and get out. You've ruined my life enough as it is, now leave." Layla covered her face with the bed clothes and held her breath to keep from sobbing. When she peeked back out from beneath the blankets her room was dark and empty again. Sherlock had listened to her for once.

Layla regretted her emotional outburst the entire next day. She typed out a variety of apologies or scarcely hidden excuses for contact in a number of texts but didn't send a single one out of pride and embarrassment. She brooded over the whole encounter for the entire flight back to London, for the entire cab ride to 221 and was in the midst of mentally berating her unrelenting hot-headedness when she unlocked her front door. Or rather, she tried to unlock her door. It isn't really possible to unlock a busted deadbolt.

"Shit." Layla tiptoed through the detritus of her apartment, stepping around strewn papers and clothing and skirting the gaping holes in the floor boards. All of Sherlock's secret compartments had been pried open and even some new ones had been created.

"Jesus." Layla picked up the shattered splinters of her hacked apart wardrobe and sifted through the rent clothing. Hardly a stitch of her clothes had survived the ransacking and the false back of her wardrobe had definitely been detected, and then destroyed.

"Thank god I left Fluffy with Mrs. Huds—aick!" A gloved hand clapped over her mouth and the cool barrel of a gun pressed below her jaw.

"Quiet." A man's voice hissed in her ear and she felt herself being dragged from her apartment. "You're coming with me."


	10. Here, There and Everywhere

Layla was anything but quiet as the intruder attempted to haul her from inside her apartment. The gun pressed harder against her throat and his voice rasped again in her ear.

"I don't need you alive, so I would suggest that you keep silent." He sounded serious and Layla was in no position to test his honesty, so she stomped screaming and focused on something else. Cataloguing his features. _He's taller than me, but not by much. Maybe 5'9'' 5'10''. His accent is different, but I don't know what. Medium voice range. Smells like petroleum and… what is that something sweet? And he's strong._ She held her breath as the man bodily lifted her over the threshold of her apartment. He stopped midway across the front parlor with a hiss.

"Drop her. Now." Layla heard John's voice behind her and fell completely still, limp in fact. The man struggled to keep her upright as she slipped down his body as dead weight.

"I said, drop her." John sounded serious, more than serious. Layla closed her eyes when she heard the click of the gun cocking. _I've got seconds, he's just going to shoot me and run._

"I have a gun to your skull, you fuck, now drop her." Layla was released and collapsed completely on the floor.

"Stop to consider this, Dr. Watson. What are you going to do now?" The man, despite conceding to John's demands, had very little fear in his voice.

"I know a D.I., I'm sure I'll figure something out." Layla opened her eyes from the floor and surveyed the scene. John most certainly had a gun to the man's head, he also had his cell phone is his other hand, and it was lit up. He looked down at Layla and shook his head once. She had no idea what he was signaling her not to do, but she was not in any state to do much of anything just then. Her heart was beating through her chest, her head was swimming and her limbs were like jelly.

"What is Detective Inspector Lestrade going to do in the middle of a gun stand off?" Layla looked back at her assailant. He was dressed in pedestrian clothing, a cap, some jean and wearing gloves, he looked perfectly normal. He also looked dangerous, especially with the blade he was working out of his sleeve.

"I wasn't worried about a standoff, more about cleaning you off my floor. And drop that knife." The knife fell with a clatter to the floor as John pressed his army issue pistol harder against the man's head.

"Oh dear lord Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson dropped the bucket of cleaning materials and tried to back away into her own apartment again. The man was, however, too quick and grabbed the poor landlady before the rest of them had time to react.

"Alright, Dr. Watson, unless you want a dead old woman on your hands, you're going to let me leave." He held Mrs. Hudson in front of him and back towards the street entrance.

"I'm sorry Dr. Watson, I'm—I'm so sorry." Mrs. Hudson sniffled as she was led towards the door. John shook his head and spoke quickly into his phone.

"I'm going to have to let him leave Lestrade. He has Mrs. Hudson." The man was clever, he had almost completely concealed himself behind the slight form of the land lady and John had no clear shot, no matter how excellent his aim was. Layla heard a muffled voice from the other line of John's phone before John snapped it shut.

"Tough luck, Dr. Watson." The man slipped out of the door and shoved Mrs. Hudson towards Layla and John. John caught the bewildered woman and steadied her against the wall before darting out the front door.

"Are—are you alright Layla? I didn't even know you were back yet." Mrs. Hudson, shaking but steady enough to gather the cans and rags she had spilt, peered down at Layla with concern.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a bit shook up, but fine, thanks." Layla sat up slowly and rubbed the spot on her neck where the gun had been pressed. She was pretty sure she would have a nice bruise there. Mrs. Hudson tutted and hovered around Layla as she stood up hesitantly.

"What in the world was all that about?"

"I really don't know." Layla had an idea but she wasn't willing to admit it. Sherlock had been right; it wasn't safe for her to come home. Not even a bit.

"No, he ran off. I didn't even see which direction." John stomped inside and headed straight for Layla.

"Pity. I did so want rid myself of him." Mycroft stepped through the front door and nodded towards the two stunned women. "Mrs. Hudson, accosted for the second time this week. I believe it may be time to adjust the security. Maybe replace the front door locks?"

"Yeah, maybe." John looked towards Mrs. Hudson and then turned his attention back to Layla. "Did he hurt you at all? Layla, here, look at me. Where did he find you?"

Layla turned away from staring at envelope in Mycroft's hand and shook her head at John.

"No, just the pressure bruise from the gun." She gently touched the warm spot on her neck and tried to sidle around John. He stopped her.

"Layla, you may be in shock, please hold still." John looked into her pupils and then took her pulse. "You collapsed on the floor, were you fainting, or—"

"No, I just went limp to make it harder for him to drag me out of here." Layla rubbed her face and then leaned against the wall, she was suddenly more exhausted than before. "He just grabbed me from behind and then physically hauled me out here, he didn't have any time to actually hurt me."

Mycroft had meanwhile been wading through the flotsam of her wrecked apartment. He drifted back into the foyer and over to Layla.

"It seems, Dr. Watson, he was after more than Dr. McManis herself." He nodded towards her doorway.

"Jesus." John grimaced at the destruction and shook his head. Mrs. Hudson dashed into the room and groaned.

"You're lucky to be here, Layla." John inspected the bruise on her neck and stepped away with a nod. "You'll be fine, just some deep bruising. What is going on here, Mycroft?" The doctor guided Layla to sit on the stairs.

"Dr. McManis here has acquired some unfortunate enemies during her time working for me. It seems they are no longer content with her knowing their code secrets." Mycroft stepped closer to Layla and held out his hand. "In that vein, I need to speak with you, in private."

John furrowed his brow in suspicion and set a hand on her shoulder.

"Hold on Mycroft. This isn't just about Layla at this point; Mrs. Hudson has been in danger as well. We all deserve to know what is happening."

"It is just as I said, Dr. Watson. They have been watching 221 Baker St. waiting for Dr. McManis to return." Mycroft sighed impatiently as John glared at him and then turned to Layla.

"Layla, did he say anything to you?"

"Not much. Just told me to be quiet and then threatened me with the fact that they didn't need me alive." Layla winced as she heard Mrs. Hudson's string of laments rise to a fever pitch. She had found the holes in the floor.

"There are enormous holes in my floor, Mycroft Holmes!" The little lady bustled back out with scraps of wood clasped in her hands.

"Indeed." Layla hid a smile behind her hand as Mycroft treated the landlady's rants with the signature Holmes stoicness.

"So, they want you dead?" John shook his head and held the gun loosely in his palms. "I should have shot the bastard while I had the chance."

"Perhaps, but we have little use of lingering over such regrets." Layla's conciliatory response was anticipated by Mycroft. "For now we need to evacuate Dr. McManis and in doing so remove the threat from Baker St." He turned towards Layla's door and gestured for her to follow. "Shall we discuss the arrangements?"

"Sure. Thanks for—for saving my life John." Layla rose from the stairs and patted John's arm.

"Time is of the essence Dr.—"

"Yeah, I'm coming Mycroft." Layla waved her hand impatiently at the elder Holmes and then grabbed Mrs. Hudson's shaking hands. "I'm sorry about the floor Mrs. Hudson. I really am. When I'm done with Mycroft I'm going to come get Fluffy." She withdrew from her neighbors and resignedly followed Mycroft indoors.

Skirting around the gaps in the flooring and the shards of her furniture Layla made her way over to the overturned desk and chair. Mycroft set up the table and then, leaning against it, bade Layla to sit. He set the envelope Layla had noticed earlier on the table and knitted his hands together. Layla watched him closely. He looked concerned and Layla did not like such a wrinkle in Mycroft's smooth and normally emotionless exterior.

"Here we are again, Layla. My little brother has gotten himself into trouble and I'm compelled to find arrangements for his—" Mycroft paused and leered over at Layla.

_He better not say concubine. I can see it in his face, he's going to call me Sherlock's concubine. _Layla glared rebelliously at Mycroft.

"—his consort." Mycroft widened his eyes at the pointed censoring and reached for the envelope. "Except now, not only am I his financier but his courier, apparently." He held out the manila envelope and rolled his eyes.

"So, Sherlock sent you?" Layla whispered as she leaned forward to take the proffered envelope.

"We feel you are better suited for our sister offices, in New Zealand." Mycroft collected his umbrella and strode past Layla towards the door.

"Wait, what? I'm not working here anymore?" Layla held the unopened letter limply in her hands and followed Mycroft's exit.

"No, and fortunately, you hardly need to pack." Mycroft gestured to her ruined wardrobe and furniture.

"But—but what have I done?"

"This isn't about you, Layla, which you would know if you had been listening." Mycroft lingered at the door and graced her with one last patronizing look. "My _brother_ has put us all in a difficult situation. The car will be here in three hours. Try to be prompt for that at least."

The bolt-less door tapped weakly against its wooden frame as Layla stared silently at her apartment and then the envelope in her hands.

"Layla?" John stuck his head in the door. "May I come in?"

"Sure, yeah come on in John." Layla set the envelope aside and moved over to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"No, thank you." John stooped over to look into one of the exposed holes in the floor. "Just wanted to pop in and make sure everything is actually alright. Mycroft can be an insensitive ass sometimes."

Layla stopped puttering around with the kettle and leaned against her counter.

"He can be and he was, but I think unfortunately this time he had a reason. I am being relocated." John stood up quickly and frowned.

"Relocated? Where?"

"New Zealand."

"New Zealand! Why?" John took step forward and almost fell into the hole.

"Woah—hole!" Layla scampered over and caught hold of John's hand. "For protection, for me and for you and Mrs. Hudson. I'm too much of a target here. Mycroft thinks I'll be less of a walking bull's eye far, far away." Layla smiled reassuringly but inside was deeply unhappy. She was disturbed by her improving ability to lie straight to her friends' faces.

"Oh, well…" John's face fell another fraction of an inch. "You'll be missed here, Layla." He stood from the bed and marched smartly to her busted door.

"Thanks, John. Believe me, I'll miss here as well. This has become more of a home to me than my childhood house." Layla looked forlornly around her ravished flat. There wasn't much left to it now but it was undoubtedly her home, or had been.

"Right. Well, let me know when you leave." John shoved his hands in his pockets and went back upstairs.

"Okay." Layla followed him out and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. "I'm here for Fluffy. And to end my lease."

"Oh, no need dear. Mr. Holmes already paid it off for the next few months." Mrs. Hudson handed Layla the rabbit hutch and smiled. "I'll have the workmen come in and have everything fixed up by then. Not to worry love." She waved a check at Layla and then shut her door quietly.

"Well I'll be damned." Layla carried Fluffy and his hutch back to her apartment and sat down with the foreboding envelope.

"Now let's see what this little stinker has in it, what do you think Fluffy? Airline tickets again? Maybe something more fun, like… well I don't know what Sherlock would send me that would be fun. You're a rabbit. I'm talking to a rabbit. I need some friends." Layla petted the tiny hairless bunny on her lap and pulled half-heartedly at the envelope's seal.

"Well, maybe not, seeing where my friendships have gotten me." She looked around the flat again. "I'll stick with you, eh little guy. Let's cross our fingers for tickets and not something more foreboding." Layla ran her finger under the seal and rubbed the bunny's ears with her free hand.

"Oh, look Fluffers, it's not just tickets," she dumped the ticket to Auckland out on her bed along with a key, "apparently there will be a door in New Zealand, oh and you're to come along too! I think Sherlock has taken a liking to you." She held the rabbit up to her face and nuzzled its nose affectionately.

"Or he wants to experiment on you some more, but no matter, I sure like you. So we've got to catch a plane, go to this…" she looked more closely at the messy collection of numbers on the interior of the envelope, "to these coordinates and then open the mysterious door! That's all we know though. All this bullshit and all he writes is 'Bring the rabbit' and some messy numbers. No 'I'm sorry you were almost killed because of me' or 'hey, I think you were right, let's discuss our relationship.'" Layla paused and looked down at Fluffy. He just blinked up at her and twitched his nose.

"Yeah, you're right Fluffy, that's expecting way too much."

Layla brought only her luggage from her trip home and Fluffy's hutch to the airport. There was hardly a scrap of anything else left in her flat to bring besides that, and she had looked. Nothing of Sherlock's was left, no clothing, no science equipment, no nothing. She hoped that he had cleared it out before the raid had happened, otherwise the people who were after him would know for certain that he was alive.

She checked her luggage and trudged slowly to her terminal with only her carry-on and Fluffy. His hutch was small enough to be considered one of her in cabin bags and she was glad for it too, she wanted his company for the long flight. As Layla was looking for a seat in the waiting area and muttering under her breath, mostly to the rabbit but also to herself, she stumbled over someone and fell basically onto their lap.

"Oh goodness, I'm sorry. Such a terrible clutz." Layla excused herself from the dignified gentleman now staring at her hairless rabbit and edged over to another row of seats.

"Layla?" Layla froze on the spot. It was a woman's voice.

"Oh, Molly. So good to see _you_." Layla was enormously relieved. For a split second she had feared that Irene had found her.

"Hi…" Molly looked confused. Confused and anxious. "Going to Auckland too, eh?" She smiled weakly and twiddled her fingers.

"So it seems." Layla sat down heavily next to Molly.

"Cute—rabbit?" Molly reached into the hutch to pet Fluffy.

"Yep, rare hairless rabbit, his name is Fluffy."

"Ha, Fluffy." Molly tittered and began to chew on her lip. Layla noticed that Molly seemed particularly uncomfortable but blew it off, _maybe she's a nervous flier_.

"Holiday?" Layla felt the need to break the lengthening silence.

"Yeah, well no. No actually I'm going for a conference. A medical conference." Molly nodded and pulled on the tip of her ponytail.

"A medical conference? Do you bring dead bodies in, I mean, don't you normally work in the morgue?"

"Oh, ha, no we give papers on new research and stuff." Molly giggled again, a little less nervously this time.

"Neat. How long will you be there?"

"Not for long, just a few days. You? I mean, if you're bringing your pet you'll be there for a while huh?"

"Yeah, I actually don't know. I've been banished by Queen Mycroft." Molly laughed outright this time but then clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, it's not funny—"

"No, it kind of is, I'm just going to work with the government in New Zealand until Mycroft feels I can return." Layla twiddled with Fluffy's ear to keep from looking at Molly. She needn't have done so, Molly was also avoiding Layla's eye.

"That's too bad."

"Yeah… so…" The two women continued awkwardly fiddling with their hands and looking anywhere but at one another. Layla almost sighed with relief when the boarding announcement interrupted their strained silence. "Okay, well, have a nice trip! See you—uh, later!" Layla snatched up her bags and darted to the front of the line. She wanted to be as far away from Molly and the lies that she required as possible.

"You wouldn't happen to be 27C would you?" Molly's timid voice squeaked out behind Layla as she shoved her non-living carry-on into the overhead compartment. Layla attempted not to cringe and turned to Molly with a blinding smile.

"Sure am! Looks like we'll be flight buddies! Fun… huh?" Molly matched Layla's unnecessarily bright enthusiasm with a forced laugh and edged her bag in next to Layla's.

"This is really, super great. Now we'll have time to catch up."

The two hardly said more than a couple words to one another during the flight.

"So nice, er, to chat with you…" Molly waved mouse-ishly at Layla and then ducked into a cab. Layla waved back weakly and then stepped into her own cab. It had been the most uncomfortable day and a half of her life. The only break they had had from one another was the stopover in Singapore and when one of them had fallen asleep.

"Such a shame." Layla tickled Fluffy's chin and then frowned. "She and I could have been such good friends."

"Destination?" Layla dug through her bag and pulled out the sheet of paper she had written the translated address onto. Sometime during the flight she had found the privacy to look up the coordinates and find the corresponding address. She handed it through the partition and leaned back against the seat to relax. "That's a good pub." Layla smiled at the cabbie looking back at her via the rear view mirror.

"That's terrific."

"American, eh? Long way from home you are, what brings you to our corner of the globe?"

Layla took a deep steadying breath; this man was too kind to be rude to. One sickly sweet smile plastered onto her face and she was ready for small talk.

"I've been transferred. The job calls!"

"Ah, the same old story. It's too bad I was hoping a pretty bird like you was here on holiday."

Layla looked up at the mirror again, _he doesn't sound New Zealander._ "You're not from here either? What is that, an English accent?"

"That's right, retired from the army to the most beautiful place in the world." The cab pulled to a stop.

"Well, thanks…" Layla paid the fare and hopped out of the door.

"Not a problem, good luck." Layla smiled again politely and turned towards the pub.

"Oh sweet lord." She almost dropped Fluffy's hutch when she saw the profile of the woman ducking into the building. "Seriously?" Layla collected her things again and ran inside.

Sherlock was there, sitting brunette, unmasked and undisguised in a booth near the back. Layla noted him but then scanned the pub for Molly Hooper. She knew she hadn't imagined that long ponytail flipping behind her as she too darted inside. Sure enough, there she was scampering towards Sherlock. Layla stopped on the spot and edged into the shadows nearest the door. She watched as Molly sat down nervously across from Sherlock and pulled out a large dark bundle and then slid it, along with a bulky bag across the table to him. Sherlock smiled briefly at Molly and then looked straight at Layla. She stiffened, but she was in the shadows, there was no way he could see her. And yet, he continued staring her in the eye until Molly turned around. She too stiffened and gasped but Sherlock paid her no heed, he merely inclined his head towards the seat next to him. Layla drew a shuddering breath and then dragged all of her things over to their table.

"You're late, as usual." Sherlock scooted nearer to the wall and then nodded at Molly, "Dr. Hooper here was on time." He blinked evenly at Layla and waited for her response. Instead both women stared at him with utter shock.

"You—you know too, Layla?" Molly's voice was barely a squeak.

"I'm as surprised as you are Molly." Layla smiled consolingly at the bewildered pathologist and then went back to staring daggers at Sherlock.

"Yes, yes. You two were left in the dark. I lied, you're angry and feel betrayed. Nothing new." Sherlock shook off Layla's growing anger like she was a spoilt child. "Dr. Hooper has known for the longest perhaps. Molly, is my scarf here as well?" Sherlock sifted through the dark bundle which Layla now recognized as his long coat and smiled as he pulled out the lovely blue scarf. "Good thank you."

"Anything else you'd like to tell me about? Maybe how I was the only person who actually thought you were dead?" Layla wanted to be furious, to lash out and yell at Sherlock again, but she was just too tired. Her questions came across more bored than angry.

"I'm glad to see you've reined in your emotions since I last saw you." Layla shrugged wearily and turned to Molly to apologize, to comfort her, something but the little pathologist looked just as drained as Layla felt.

"News to you, I see, as well." Molly looked away from Sherlock and nodded silently.

"Oh, yes, Molly too thought she was the only person who knew. The deceit was for your safety. I needed both of you to feel as though the secret you were keeping was absolute. If you knew others were aware of it you might have been inclined to commiserate and that would have attracted unwanted attention." Sherlock leaned over Layla and extracted Fluffy from his cage. "Good, good."He muttered under his breath as he inspected the rabbit's skin.

"So… so you didn't leave the country?" Molly finally piped up.

"Not until recently. I've been staying with Layla." He shone his cell phone's light into the animal's ear and nodded.

"Sta—staying with her? For months, sleeping in her—in her one bedroom flat?" Layla returned to fiddling with whatever was at hand to avoid the heart-broken gaze of Molly.

"Obviously." Sherlock opened Fluffy's mouth and compressed his tongue with a spoon. Molly opened her mouth and then forgot to shut it. "Close your mouth, Molly, you suspected Layla and I of this very activity when she was disabled in that car accident. It isn't shocking news." Molly's mouth snapped shut and she huddled into her coat to gaze dolefully back at Sherlock. He didn't spare her a single glance. "Now, Layla, do you have the key?"

"Yes." Layla rummaged through her things again and pulled out the tiny bronze key. "Here." She held it out Sherlock. He waved it aside and also placed Fluffy in her hands.

"Keep it. I just wanted to be sure you brought it." He turned back to his coat and shook it out, edging Layla out of the booth so that he could stand and put it on.

"A—a key? What does it go to?" Molly was trying to put on a brave face. When Sherlock didn't answer, Layla met her eye for the first time and shrugged with resignation.

"I honestly don't know. He doesn't tell me anything."

"Me neither." Molly looked aside and hid her shivering lip with her hand.

"What on earth did you bring in all these bags?" Sherlock stepped around Layla's luggage and bent over to unzip the nearest one.

"My stuff from America, it was already packed and it's all I have left since the apartment was obliterated by some crazy man who later attacked me. That's where this ugly bruise came from, in case you were wondering. I could be dead right now, if John hadn't saved me."

"Mm. I told you it wasn't safe there. You didn't listen." He unzipped the next bag and frowned. "All this clothing is just going to be a hindrance. You'll have to get rid of some of it."

"That's fine, whatever, I've lost the majority of my possessions anyway, why don't we just throw what's left of it away as well." She sank onto the table and let her forehead rest against the cool wood. "Speaking of, " her voice echoed off the table and around her head, "I hope you got your things out before I got there because nothing was left, Sherlock."

"Of course." Sherlock stepped over Layla on the booth itself and sank down next to her. "I retrieved everything before I came to America."

"That's good because they knew where to look, Sherlock. I mean everywhere. They even dug up your stashes below the floorboards." She lifted her head to gauge Sherlock's reaction, he was unconcerned.

"You were attacked?" Layla turned back to Molly and nodded sadly. "I—I just thought that the bruise was a hickey…" Molly placed a hand over her own neck and winced. "What happened there?"

"The barrel of a gun."

"And John saved you? That's harrowing." Molly hugged her coat even tighter to her. "I think he's underappreciated." She cut the first disproving glance Layla had ever seen from her at Sherlock and then slid out of the booth. "Well, I had better let you two… do whatever you're going to do. I'll—" she pointed back towards the entrance to the pub a shook her head "—I'll be at my hotel room, if you need something. Not that you'll need anything… ever." She spun around and basically ran out of the pub.

"That was cruel, Sherlock." Layla moved to the opposite bench and leaned forward to catch his eye.

"Nonsense." Sherlock had somewhere gotten a hold of a small syringe and was now taking a tiny beaker's worth of blood from Fluffy.

"Do you really need to do that here? Never mind, I can't believe you treated Molly like that. No, that's not right, I can believe it, but I'm disgusted by it. She's been nothing but accommodating for you, presumably she's the person who enabled your survival and you treat her like lab equipment. Although, really, you seem to treat lab equipment better than you do your _friends_." Layla sat back with a huff and missed the sharp glance Sherlock shot at her.

"I have not mistreated her."

"Ya think?" Layla scoffed as she swept the hair from her face. "You lied to, misled, and made her fly down here just to bring you what? Your coat and some lab equipment? You could have at least thanked her, bought her a drink, not told her that we were fuck buddies, something. She is clearly infatuated with you, and I know you know that because that's how you manipulate her—"

"Layla. Shh." Sherlock was staring at the entrance. "No, don't." He caught her arm as she tried to turn around. "Were you followed?"

"Oh god, I don't know, I took a cab." Sherlock sighed and slid out of the booth.

"Here, take him." He shoved Fluffy, the needle and the vile of blood into Layla's hands. "I'm going out back. Follow me out in precisely seven minutes." Sherlock swept past the corner table and slipped out into the back alley.

"Oh, Fluffy, what is it now?" Layla carefully capped the needle, pocketed the vile of blood and slipped the rabbit back in his hutch. "You and I, we've had one hellava day." She glanced in the reflective metal of the cage to watch the movement behind her. So far, she could only make out a few blobby figures but none of them were advancing. _Maybe it was a false alarm._ She glanced up at the time on the television set, it had been three minutes, she still had four to go.

"Okay little one, let's gather our things up. Man do we have enough stuff?" Layla tiptoed around her bags and quickly stuffed Sherlock's distinctive blue scarf into the nearest one. "Now let's make sure we have everything…" Layla checked through her bag for her phone, the special key and her wallet. She had all of them. In the process she snuck a glance at the front. There were a couple of men standing near the front, but none of them were scouring the pub, they were just standing there.

"And now for you, cutie." She shouldered Fluffies hutch and collected her bags plus the bulky sack Molly had left and teetered towards the back, she was a minute early but she had no other excuse for lingering around the table.

"Alright, here we are Fluffy, out back like we were told. Now where is he?" Layla set down the heaviest of her load and peered into the half dark of the alleyway.

"You're early." Sherlock rounded the corner and strode over to her. "I think this is a first." He took the lumpy bag from Layla and the largest of her suitcases and bolted out of the alley. "Come on."

Layla followed keeping up as best she could. They jogged down alley after alley, changing directions at least four times and back-tracking twice.

"Hey, wait, I can't breathe." Layla dropped her case and leaned against the nearest wall.

"Come, now, we need to put more space between us and that pub. My first diversion was not as effective as I would have hoped, they're probably tracking us now." Sherlock grabbed Fluffy's hutch as well and took off again.

"Fuck this shit." Layla threw her body forward and sprinted after Sherlock. A few more blocks and Layla's vision was blurring and her chest aching. "I. Am. So. Out. Of. Shape." She panted pitifully as she jogged up to the corner Sherlock was waiting at.

"How's your breathing?" He was barely sweating.

"Painful." Layla bent over and clenched at the stitch in her side.

"No, no. Stand up straight." Sherlock pulled her upright and lifted her hands up above her head. "Stay like this, no." He caught her falling arms. "No, keep your arms raised, it opens you ribcage to allow for deeper breathing. Keep breathing." He checked to make sure she stayed in that pose and then glanced around the corner.

"The street is clear. When you're ready, which should be very soon, we can go inside." He stayed at his post and watched the street.

"Let's go." Layla kept her hands atop her head and slouched up to him. The idea of being at their destination spurred her on.

"Key." Sherlock held out his hand and continued eyeing the street-front. Layla retrieved the key and set it in his hand. He took off like a shot across the street carrying all her luggage except her one bag.

"Oh, wait." Layla stumbled after him and then promptly retched in the street, she wasn't as recovered as she had thought.

"For the love of—" Sherlock swooped down from the steps of the building he had just unlocked and threw Layla over his shoulder. "You're going to have to improve your stamina. It's a matter of life and death now." He set her down inside and quickly shut the door.

"I'm sorry, I've been… yeah I don't have a good excuse." Layla fell back and laid out flat on the floor. Her ears were ringing and her mouth tasted like bile, if she wasn't careful she was going to retch again.

"I believe the word you're looking for is lazy." Sherlock dashed around the small bungalow they had barreled into, shutting all the blinds and pulling the shades. He peeked out of the last window and, apparently content with the scene outside, flipped the lights on.

Layla opened her eyes and rolled over onto her side. The place was lovely, well furnished and clean. It looked to her like the beach homes she had stayed in with her family as a child. Nice furniture but clearly not lived in, everything looked like it was attempting to fit into a vacation theme.

"Yeah, no denying that. I'm so lazy." She sat up slowly and watched Sherlock dig through the bag Molly had brought.

"I wouldn't say _so_ lazy. You did just run three miles, approximately." He found what he was looking for, a phial of clear liquid, one that looked just like his botanical pepper spray, and sat back on his heels.

"Is that? How did she get that stuff through customs?" Layla crawled over to Sherlock and opened the bag up wider. Sure there was lab equipment inside; beakers, a Bunsen burner, some more test tube, boxes of slides and a microscope she hadn't seen before; but there was also his bags of plants and bottles of goo. Normally that kind of stuff was instantly confiscated in an airport.

"Good. Lovely Molly, brilliant Molly." Sherlock grinned and picked out all of the organic stuff. "She did it. I was worried, like you just said, this is normally confiscated but she has a medical license and sometimes they'll ignore the doctors. Molly is as nondescript as possible, that's why she's perfect for smuggling things to me, people treat her like furniture more than a living being."

"That's not familiar." Layla smiled impishly when Sherlock glared at her.

"Here, eat this." He held a leaf out to Layla by a pair of tweezers.

"Uh, no." Layla leaned away from the poison ivy and shook her head. "I just vomited and that's poison ivy, so nope."

"Just do it." Sherlock held it closer to her face.

"Why in the world would I eat that? I could get sick."

"You've seen the rabbit." Sherlock shook his head in vexation and began chewing on his own leaf.

"Fluffy? Oh, because he's okay you expect me to start munching a poisonous leaf?"

"It isn't technically poisonous, it elicits an allergic response." He finished eating his leaf and began in on another one.

"You're a nutso, Sherlock." Layla submitted and opened her mouth. "Oh, god. It tastes awful." She swallowed the ivy pulp as quickly as she could and gagged again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, I don't imagine it will feel very good coming back up." Sherlock handed her a bottle of water and took a swig from his own.

"What am I doing here, Sherlock?" Layla drank half her bottle and the inched over to the chair he had moved to.

"Not dying." Sherlock stopped staring off into space to lift Layla's chin and examine her neck. "He nearly had you."

Layla pulled herself up onto her knees and leaned on Sherlock's lap as he traced the outline the gun had left.

"Yep, I was caught. Totally and completely. I didn't even hear him behind me." She closed her eyes and attempted to calm her heart. The run had upped her pulse and Sherlock's unexpected tender attention was keeping it elevated.

"You resisted."

"Oh hell yeah. Wait, were you asking?" She opened her eyes and found Sherlock's hair in her face. He was bent over her neck.

"No, observing."

"Oh." Layla had no idea how he had observed that, but she didn't feel like asking. It was probably something about the bruising pattern.

"Yeah, I kicked and strained and then eventually just went limp. Sadly the dead weight approach was the most effective." She winced as he pressed the bruise.

"Ouch."

"That was too close. You should have listened to me." He sat back and took her face in his hands.

"Did he do anything else to you?" He ran a finger over her mouth.

"He silenced you first, with a hand over your mouth. You have minute bruising here, and here." He traced the skin to the side of her mouth on either side where the intruder had grabbed her face.

"Yeah, but that was it. I stopped struggling when he told me I was expendable." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself. You'll need it here." He removed her elbows from his lap and walked to the window.

"Now that you mention it, you still haven't explained to me why I'm here." Layla hauled her exhausted body into the chair he had abandoned and sprawled out in it.

"As I said, to protect you."

"And…? You wouldn't have flown me out here to you if it were solely for my protection. Like you said all that time ago, I'm in danger around you."

"Indeed." Sherlock smiled and closed the window coverings again. Layla was completely motionless in the chair, head thrown back, eyes closed and joints pointing in every which direction. He watched her for a few moments and then turned away.

"I want your help. I've decided upon an alias here as a couple on holiday. That allows us free range of the islands without attracting unwanted attention. Couples can go adventuring, a single man alone seems suspicious to some."

"I can be on holiday, I have nooooooo issue with that." Layla left her eyes closed and yawned deeply.

"It won't be a holiday though. It will be dangerous, and fast paced. A good bit of running. Tonight was just a sample, you'll have to get used to that."

"Fine, fine. I've been meaning to work out some more." Her voice was growing groggy.

"You could get hurt. I'll be searching out high risk criminals."

"Sounds a laugh."

"There won't be any time to be lazy."

"Yeah, well I'll be able to keep an eye on you and finally get some action. I think that's a fair enough trade."

Sherlock smiled again and folded his hands behind his back. He waited until Layla's breathing fell into a slow and regular pattern and then opened the window a sliver to keep watch.

"Are you going to let your hair be normal again?" Layla's voice rang out through the silence of the bungalow. Sherlock closed the curtain and approached Layla's chair. She looked to be asleep but she had spoken perfectly lucidly. He decided to answer.

"Yes." Layla smiled softly and reached her hand out. She stroked Sherlock's leg sloppily and then let her hand drop.

"I've missed you." Sherlock was itching to jerk away, to reject the affection but oddly enough he stayed put.

"Are you sleeping, Layla?" He knelt beside the chair after gently taking her hand from his leg and holding it in his own. Her pulse was low, she had to be sleeping.

"Oh yeah."Her eyes darted behind their lids.

"Then listen closely because I'll only say this once," He tenderly set Layla's hand on the chair and whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry. About Irene, and Mycroft and Molly, about it all. Please forgive me. I won't leave you clueless, or helpless, again."

Layla smiled wider and rolled her face towards his voice.

"Of course I forgive you Sherlock."

"I know you do." Sherlock softly, ever so softly, kissed Layla behind the ear and eased away from her. It was time for her to get some rest, she would need it.


	11. Within You Without You

The next few weeks, despite Sherlock's constant assurances to the contrary, did actually feel like she was on vacation. Besides having to run several miles every morning on the beach, and eating poison ivy on occasion, Layla was allowed to do whatever she wanted. That usually consisted of sunbathing or watching Sherlock tinker with his chemistry set but Layla was enjoying herself, and generally being lazy. That was until Sherlock called her on it.

"No, no, keep your weight off your heels." Layla pivoted forward onto the balls of her feet. Sweat was streaming from her brow and her entire body ached with exhaustion. Sherlock stepped back around her and inspected her form.

"Now hold your hands higher, guard your face. Yes, good. Tuck your elbows. That'll protect your center more efficiently. Excellent." He swatted at her ribs and was effectively parried. "Very good."

"How long do I have to stand like this? My—my everything hurts." Sherlock shoved her shoulder and smiled. She stayed balanced for possibly the first time since he'd met her.

"You should always stand like this. See there, you're stable." He circled her again pushing in different places and grinning as she swayed but held her place.

"Super duper, I'm one percent less a complete clutz. How exactly is this going to protect me? I thought you were going to teach me how to defend myself." Layla wiped the sweat that was dripping into her eye and swiveled slightly to keep Sherlock in her sights.

"Balance is absolutely essential, how are you to ward off someone attacking you if you can't hold your center?" He slid her right foot out from under her and caught her falling form in his arms.

"Oh, great. Good point, here I am helpless in your arms. I understand now." Layla struggled to stand up on her own two feet again. Once she had resumed her stance she turned back to Sherlock.

"Alrighty then, I've got my stance. Now let's learn some defense."

"Well, you're half way there. Keeping your balance is first and ensuring that your head and center are covered is second. The next thing to keep in mind is staying attentive; make sure you are aware of their limbs, every one." He tapped her feet again with his and she hopped to the side to avoid being uprooted.

"Good." Sherlock stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the ground. He too was sweating with the hot New Zealand sun beating down on them. They had found the beach to be the easiest place to exercise without drawing attention.

"That's not fair, you're trying to distract me." Layla nodded to his bare chest and ducked again behind her hands. Sherlock looked down at himself and then rolled his eyes.

"I'm merely getting comfortable. Focus." He continued to pace around her in circles but she dropped her guard.

"I mean, damn. I'm not the only one who's been working out, look at you mister muscles." Layla kept turning to face Sherlock but completely neglected her stance.

"Well, yes. That punching bag on the porch is not there for decoration. Now, stay alert." He side stepped her, pulled her foot out in front of her with his own and tapped her shoulder with a single finger. She landed on her ass with a thud.

"See, you have to keep your focus. You can't ever get distracted or you compromise your safety. I hardly had to touch you to knock you over. If this were an actual attack, you'd be captured or dead." He lifted her off the ground and repositioned her hands and feet.

"That wasn't fair, I wasn't ready." Layla squinted at him from behind her hands and resumed her ready pose. She shifted her weight from the ball of one foot to the other and kept her eye on Sherlock, not his chest.

"And that, Layla, is the point. You must always be ready." He stopped prowling and squared his shoulders in front of Layla. "You have your block, your balance and your focus. I think you're ready to learn how to evade."

"Oh god, are you going to hit me?" Sherlock jerked away from Layla and scrunched his nose.

"No, I'm going to aim to hit you. You are going to successfully evade and if you don't I'll pull back. I'm not going to hurt you Layla, I can't believe you'd even be concerned about that." He raised her hands and adjusted her elbows while holding her gaze.

"Fine, well, you did just push me over for checking you out, I didn't know, you could have had other painful lessons in store."

"It was not in response to your—no, I pushed you over as a demonstration of how important your focus is. It was in no way a punishment." If Layla hadn't known any better, Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with the discussion.

"Sherlock, are you blushing?"

"Me? No. Why should I be?" He stepped back and gathered up his shirt.

"Oh my god you are! You're blushing at my blatant sexual advances!" Layla hopped on the spot but kept her hands at the ready.

"Absolutely not. What gives you that idea? It's not as though I'm unused to your lewd comments. Although your general lack of interest for the past two weeks has been disconcerting, at best." He slipped the shirt back over his head and shook his hair free of the sand that came with it.

"Me? Uninterested? You're the one who's been sleeping in a separate room!" Layla ducked a swing at her head and then promptly fell over onto her knees helplessly.

"That will not do." Sherlock helped her back to her feet and then aimed for her side. "I was only sleeping in second bedroom because you seemed so averse to sharing the bed."

"I was asleep. I'm always averse to sharing a bed when I'm asleep. Unconscious Layla is the hoggiest of bed hogs." She hopped beyond his trip and leaned away from a right hook. "Oof. I've… ack… I've. Been. Waiting. For you to make—ah ha—a move." Layla ducked and successfully skipped away from a series of blows.

"Point well taken. I must say, after our last meeting in North Carolina I nearly thought you wouldn't see me again." He tapped her exposed side and shook his head. "Tuck your elbows."

"Well I—okay, okay I've tucked them—I was pretty livid at that point, but I guess I get it now. It was for everyone's own good. And I could swear you apologized for it at some point, although now that I say that out loud, it seems absurd. I must have dreamt it."

"Hmm." Sherlock stepped away and stopped his half-power attack. "That's enough for today, we'll start contact tomorrow: using your opponents' momentum and force to your advantage and active defense as in escaping holds etc." He turned towards the city and marched up the dunes and away from Layla.

"Hey, wait! What's wrong, Sherlock? That wasn't even our normal two hours? Did I do something?" She caught up with him and trailed along at his side.

"No, you've done nothing. I must go into the city proper today so we'll have to pick up on this tomorrow."

"Okay, if you say so. Be forewarned though, after that little display on the beach I'm going to be a hand full this evening." Sherlock looked down at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

"Oh, is that so?"

"Sure is, when you're finished selling black-market kidneys or hunting Velociraptors or whatever crazy thing you do downtown, I'm going to seduce the hell out of you." She poked his arm to emphasize her point and then skipped on ahead.

"We'll see about that."

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Layla started awake at the sound of Sherlock's voice and sat up from her towel.

"Sunbathing. I thought you would have figured that out on your own, you are a detective, aren't you?" Layla looked over her dark sunglasses up at Sherlock and grinned playfully.

"It no longer qualifies as sunbathing when you are lying beneath a parasol."

"Well, I burn easily."

"No matter, gather your things up and come back with me, we have some things to discuss."

"Okay, okay." Layla waved him off from recklessly piling her things into the beach bag and began packing them herself.

"Quickly." He started pacing around the perimeter of her beach towel and throwing items at her at random. "We need to get back to the house, I fear I've been followed and we're not safe out here in the open—could you move any slower, woman!" He yanked the parasol out of the sand and herded Layla towards the bungalow.

"Sherlock! Just stop, I'm moving—" Layla swung behind her and landed a solid punch against Sherlock's chest. She was left unhurried, after a frustrated growl from Sherlock, to march back at her own pace.

"Oh, hello there Fluffy! Had a nice afternoon in your play pen?" Layla bent over to pet the bunny hopping around the fenced off area of their back porch.

"Grab him."

"What?"

"Grab the rabbit and bring him inside with you." Sherlock pointed at Fluffy and then at the house before stomping off inside.

"What's got his panties in a bunch, huh little Flufster?" Layla nuzzled the rabbit and then skipped inside after the disgruntled detective. "You know, I'm really liking it here. Even with all your regimen and grumpiness this has been an excellent vacation." She paused in the kitchen to collect Fluffy's water bowl but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Pack your things." He swept Fluffy out of her grasp and tucked him away in his hutch while Layla frowned after him.

"What? Why?"

"Collect your things quick as you can. We have to leave." Sherlock practically roared with irritation when Layla stayed stock still beside the sink. "Did you not hear me? I may have been followed, our safety has possibly been compromised and we need to evacuate this place." He was already methodically packing his lab equipment back into its large duffle bag.

"But… I don't want to. I like it here."

"I told you this would not be a holiday. Collect our clothing. Now." He sealed up the various bags and bottles of plant experiments and pointed urgently towards the bedroom. Layla sighed and trudged back towards where he pointed her.

"We didn't even get to christen the bed." Layla tossed her suitcase onto the bed and began piling their loose clothing inside of it. "This place is perfect. No work, nice weather. I'm even exercising. Then you had to go off and get noticed doing your secret agent mumbo jumbo." Layla raised her voice so that Sherlock could hear her in the front room.

"Like I said, not a holiday!" Sherlock shouted back at her amidst a ruckus of clattering glass. He was packing the phials.

"Yeah, well I see no reason why you couldn't do your spying or whatever it is you do in town without attracting deadly killers who will come and uproot us from our not being killed in paradise." Layla zipped the bag and turned to the bathroom to collect their accoutrements.

"Here take this." Sherlock stepped around her and shoved a tiny aerosol can into her chest on his way to the bathroom.

"Ugh, okay?... Are you going to tell me what it is or what to do with it?" Layla twirled it between her fingers looking for a label or some other identification.

"The distilled urushiol oil." Sherlock emptied the drawers onto the bathroom floor and frantically sifted through the contents. "Urgh… The poison ivy turned self-defense spray, except it's not as I expected. I think I may have over-concentrated it. Ah!" Sherlock hopped back onto his feet with another key in his hand and darted out of the room.

"So… I shouldn't use it?" Layla towed the suitcase out of the room behind her and dumped it by the front door.

"No, you absolutely must use it." Sherlock cut open the cushion of the nearest arm chair and began pulling out the stuffing.

"What're you doing? And what about the spray is not as you expected?"

"There are a collection of keys hidden throughout this home. We need them in order to access our next safe house." Sherlock moved onto the next chair. "The spray, the spray is incredible. Instead of the delayed irritation I expected from the distillation—yes! Instead of creating an intense allergic reaction long after I had ran off, it caused a nearly fatal response immediately." Sherlock pocketed the second key and sprinted to the kitchen.

"You had to use it?" Layla tumbled over the bags she had collected by the front door. "Did they see you use it?"

"Yes and yes. Like I said, I may have been followed." Sherlock was now tossing the entire contents of the refrigerator onto the floor behind him. "Check in those boxes."

"And…?" Layla ripped open a package of cheese and watched Sherlock empty the milk out onto the floor. "Here I have it." She handed the cheese covered key to him and brushed the food detritus off her bare knees.

"And what? I sprayed his face, he struggled for breath, hives broke out over his skin and he claimed to be blinded. His cohort spotted me and ran after me when I tried to escape, I think I lost them in one of the tunnels but they know I was headed towards this neighborhood. They'll be searching the houses." He took out his knife again and pierced the bag of blood he had been keeping in the fridge. It splattered across the kitchen with a wet slop and Sherlock poured the rest of it out in a line towards the back door.

"Uh, what now?" Layla sprung back and away from the gore.

"What did you think I was collecting this for? A blood bank?" Sherlock stepped into one of the discarded food containers and spread the blood around on the floor painting a clear trail. "I'm creating a false lead. If they think we've been injured they'll slow their search to check in hiding places instead of looking for us running." He whipped out a lighter and set fire to the spoilt box which he had dropped in the sink.

"Quick and dirty. Nice." Layla watched the sink smoke and crackle as the box burnt away.

"Indeed. Now, three keys, three destinations. Are you ready?" He rinsed the cinders of the box down the drain and darted back to the front door.

"Yeah, everything is packed. Do we really want to leave by the front door?" She picked up the rabbit hutch and her stuffed bag while Sherlock shouldered the lab supplies and the suitcase.

"Unfortunately yes, we have little choice since the back door is now primed." Sherlock peered through the front window and motioned for Layla to move away from the door.

"Primed?"

"Yes, primed to explode. I've been working on more than aerosols lately. Here, take these." He dropped the three keys into her cupped hands and looked her over carefully. "Where is the spray container?"

"Here." Layla pulled the tiny bottle from within her bathing suit top. "Are you sure you want me to hold these?" She held the keys in one hand as she used the other to shove her feet into her tennis shoes. She had been instructed to keep them by the front door for just such an occasion, she wished now that she had kept a shirt and shorts there as well. Running in her bathing suit was not going to be comfortable.

"Undoubtedly. They are pursuing me, if they happen to catch me you need to be able to advance to the next safe house without me. If they catch you, then—" Sherlock pursed his lips as Layla looked up at him suddenly. "—are you ready to run?" He defiantly met Layla's gaze but offered no response to the question in her eyes.

"As ready as I'm going to be," she finally breathed as she tucked the keys into her left shoe.

"Good. Take my phone, we're going to the location entered into the navigation program. If you get separated from me, head there. You'll be looking for a building with a pair of wings spray painted on it with yellow paint. Can you remember that?"

"Yes. Got it. Yellow wings."

"Layla, it's important that you escape no matter what. If they catch you they'll believe they have a bargaining chip with me and your safety will be immediately compromised. As your attacker informed you, they don't need you alive." Layla nodded and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. She had already figured that her only purpose for such people would be as a ransom.

"I will run as fast as I can."

"You must. Run. Now."

Sherlock threw open the front door and sprinted down the front porch with Layla on his heels. As she glanced around, the street looked empty and Layla felt confident they would escape with no problems. In fact, that street was empty. It was the third one they crossed that held the problem.

"Shit!" Layla nearly slammed straight into a large, heavily armed man as she flew around the corner. She had fallen behind when Sherlock jumped a fence and had been desperately trying to catch up. Luckily, the man's size also slowed him down. She spun out of his grasp and raced across the street after the shrinking silhouette of Sherlock. She actually caught up with him as they ducked into a crowd of people. She edged up behind him and walked as quickly as was socially permissible through the busy street. Unfortunately, her lack of attire was beginning to draw attention to the pair of them.

"Why couldn't you have been dressed?" Sherlock snapped back at her with a whisper and quietly slipped a cardigan off the back of a chair as they passed an outdoor café.

"Well…" Layla gladly accepted the sweater and shrugged into it. She was unable to come up with a good excuse. "…I'm faster though!"

"Not fast enough." Sherlock pulled her into a less crowded side street and picked up their pace again.

"Hey! I caught up with you." She jogged a few paces behind him and managed to poke his back pugnaciously.

"That's because I slowed up. Quiet." He held out a hand and leaned carefully around the corner of the bank they had been jogging alongside. "Alright, the garage is two blocks east of here but they have this street covered. I can see them there, and there." He nodded towards the far end of the adjacent street and one of its lining buildings. "This is going to have to be a straight sprint."

"Okay. Hold on," Layla bent over and removed the keys from her shoe, "alright, now I'm ready."

"And the spray." Layla grabbed the spray bottle and held the keys in her mouth. They tasted like feet and metal. "Go." Sherlock shoved her into the street and rushed on behind her.

"Oh god…" Layla ran as fast and as hard as she could but Sherlock passed her without any effort. So did a man with a crowbar. As Layla watched the iron club plunge toward the back of Sherlock's head she had the strangest feeling of detachment. The entire world had fallen into slow motion and she was floating. Then the bar made contact and the sickening crack of metal on skull made Layla's stomach lurch.

"YOU FUCKER!" She plummeted full into the assailant and let her baggage and poor Fluffy's cage drop from her shoulder. The man stumbled but didn't fall as she shoved her shoulder into his diaphragm. The shock of her impact was just enough to buy her time to spray the man's face with a large dose of the aerosol in her hand. He hit the concrete with a strangled yelp and began uselessly pawing at his face.

"You stupid cunt! What is this?" He swung blindly at Layla but she easily dodged him and retrieved his crowbar. His screams of rage were quickly silenced as Layla laid her full weight behind the blow. She didn't pause to check if he was actually dead, there was no way he would be following them in his state, eyes swollen shut and blood pouring from above his ear.

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Are you okay?" She fell beside him in a frenzy checking for movement and then a pulse. He was completely still with a nasty gash on the back of his head but he wasn't gushing blood like his attacker. "Please be okay, please be breathing." She grabbed his wrist and simultaneously ducked her head down to his face. She could feel both a pulse in his wrist and his breath on her cheek.

"Layla." His eyes crept open slowly and nearly caused Layla to faint with relief.

"Thank god, can you get up? Move even? We need to get out of here?"

"I think I've been concussed." Sherlock stumbled to his feet and leant against the nearest building.

"Yeah, I'd say so." Layla gathered up the squealing rabbit in his hutch and the two bags. "Here, if you can, take the suitcase, I've got the rest. Let's move."

"I'm going to vomit." Sherlock steadied himself against the bricks and turned to face Layla. "Good god. What happened to him?" He pointed at the bloodied body of their attacker.

"Me." Layla stuck the spray back into her bathing suit and grabbed the crow bar in her spare hand.

"Well done." Sherlock smiled widely and wavered on the spot.

"Boy, are you concussed. Smiling like that, you have to be. Come on." Layla grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him towards the garage. Fortunately, she could see it from there.

"If I fall asleep, wake me after fifteen minutes." Sherlock slid down the side of the garage as Layla tried each of the keys. When she looked up he had his head between his knees. Seconds later he was retching.

"You weren't kidding about the vomiting. Up you go." Layla threw open the door and hauled Sherlock to his feet again. "Now what's in here?" She stuck the used key back in her shoe and moved Sherlock and all their baggage inside the darkened garage.

"A car." Sherlock leaned heavily on her shoulder and groaned as she tried to push him off.

"Look, I know you're hurting and probably really disoriented but I need to get this car started so we can get the fuck out of here. Lean on the wall." She set him against the wall and began feeling around for a light switch.

"The light's on a string." Sherlock slurred slightly as he sunk to the floor again. Layla popped the light on and assessed their situation. There was an off road jeep four feet in front of her with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, for her at least. There was also a very injured Sherlock nodding off on the floor and a great deal of luggage to load. She started with Sherlock.

"Don't." He waved her off and pulled himself to his feet when Layla reached over to help him up. "I can manage, thank you."

Layla mentally checked off another symptom on her list of those for a concussion: vomiting, disorientation, drowsiness and mood swings.

"Great. Looks like I'm driving." She shut the passenger door behind Sherlock and dashed around the room loading their bags into the vehicle as well.

"You'll do fine." Sherlock patted her thigh with less than his normal dexterity as she buckled herself in behind the wheel.

"Let's hope so. Now where to next?" She searched for a key and, finding it under the floor mat, groped for a door clicker.

"Direction on the sat nav." He pointed to the screen on the console and pressed a button above her head. The door slowly opened and Layla started the car.

"Here we go. First time on the left side of the road. Fun stuff."

* * *

"Sherlock. Wake up." Layla reached to her left and shook the detective's arm. He slowly opened his eyes and glared over at Layla. "Your fifteen minutes were up. Sorry." She turned back to the road and took a quick left onto a dirt road.

"You've done very well, Layla. I'm impressed." Sherlock's voice was returning to its normal strength and enunciation.

"Thanks, turns out I'm not a total chump." Layla slowed the jeep and steered around a felled tree. "So where is it we're going? We've been in the car for hours."

"I'm bleeding." Sherlock was staring at his hand which was scarlet with the blood from his head.

"Yeah, I'd expect so. You got whacked pretty hard."

"I don't remember." Layla looked quickly over at Sherlock. He seemed like he still wasn't recovered fully, even if his speech was returning to normal.

"Well, this big 'ole guy jumped after you and clopped you upside the head with a crow bar. Lucky for you he was swinging in the same direction as you were running so you didn't get the full umph of his strength but you did hit the ground pretty hard."

"My hands. They're ripped open." He was staring at his hands still.

"Yes." _Oh dear, this is a bad one._ Sherlock was clearly severely concussed. "How are you feeling besides? Nausea? Dizziness?" Layla's classroom emergency training had taught her all of two skills, treating concussions and CPR, but she sure did know how to treat those who were concussed or not breathing.

"No. Just… my mind has been slowed." Sherlock shook his head softly and then stopped with a groan.

"Yeah, better not do that. You did just get a pretty good bump to your brain, probably best not to swish it around on top of that." Layla laid a hand on Sherlock's leg and stared at the diminishing trail she was driving along. "So, Sherlock, can you tell me where we are going?"

"Yes. We are…" He looked down at his hands again and blinked slowly. "We are going to the off road garage."

"Okay, that's a start. Another garage."

"And then the country house."

"Excellent, hopefully it's as nice as the beach bungalow. I loved it there." Layla slowed and turned into a partially covered drive pulling up to a camouflaged shack.

"I think you'll like it just as well here." Sherlock was smiling again. It freaked Layla out.

"How's your head?"

"Tender, but no headache if that's what you're wondering about." Sherlock stepped out of the car with Layla and began unloading the baggage.

"Slow down there, Sherlock. You need to be careful not to further injure yourself." She unlocked the garage and threw open the shabby sliding door before waving Sherlock away from the car.

"I'll be fine." He finished taking the luggage out of the jeep and stood aside for Layla to pull the jeep into the little hut.

A short hike later and Layla was gaping at the view from the new porch.

"I think you meant to say mountain cabin." She gazed out over the lush forest on the foothills spread out below her.

"Yes, perhaps I did." Sherlock leaned over her shoulder and joined her in admiring the view. "Lovely isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah." Layla turned around and peered up at Sherlock. His eyes were normally dilated but he still wasn't acting like himself. She would need to keep an eye on him. "Let's get you inside and treat that head wound, eh?"

"A well thought out plan." Sherlock nodded ponderously and stumbled against Layla and the porch railing. Layla steadied him with her hands and giggled as he accidently groped her breast.

"Getting a bit handsy there." She removed his hand and set it down on the railing beside them.

"Your breasts are lovely." He was breathing heavily and clearly focusing hard on staying standing. Layla was suddenly very concerned that he would topple over the edge of the porch.

"Oh. I'm glad you think so, let's go inside and you can grope me some more, yeah?" She slowly spun him around so that Sherlock's back was to the railing and then pulled him by the hands towards the door.

"You're beautiful. I don't tell you that enough—ever." His voice was lower, gruffer.

"Oh lord, you get a concussion and all of a sudden you're a normal man. Not that I think normal men think I'm beautiful, just that normally by this point in a relationship I would have heard that before." Layla continued prattling as she led Sherlock into the homey master bedroom of the cabin. "And look at this place, it's gorgeous. What a nice big bed! Yum!" She helped Sherlock sit down on the bed and shut the door behind them.

"I told you you would like it." He grabbed her hand as she passed the bed and pulled her back towards him.

"Okay, okay. Slow your roll, Sherlock. We've got to get that head of yours cleaned up. Then, like I said, you can do whatever you want with me." Layla easily freed herself from Sherlock's weak grasp and retrieved the necessary first aid things from their bags.

"You are too kind to me Layla McManis. I'm a wretched human being." He leaned forward with a pout and watched Layla rummage through the bags.

"No, no. Shush now. That's just the concussion talking, in reality you love yourself. Or at least you seem to."

"I'm going to make this up to you."Layla turned Sherlock's head back towards the front and parted the curls caked with blood away from the injury. She also decided to ignore the heart-breakingly genuine look of gratitude behind his blue-green eyes.

"Oh really?" Layla finished wiping the dried blood away from Sherlock's scalp and applied a slather of antibiotic ointment to the gash. "There you go, all finished."

"Thank you." _Ah that look again, I knew he could be a sweet human being. It just required a brain injury._ Layla smiled in response to his appreciation and hustled to store the medical kit instead of giving in to her desire to ravish 'sweet' Sherlock on the spot. She contented herself with quippish innuendo instead.

"So how are you planning on making this up to me, eh?" Layla called out from the bathroom as she washed her hands and put away the supplies.

"I have something in mind." Sherlock sounded devious. _At least he's getting some of his personality back_, Layla grinned to herself and straightened her hair in the mirror. He may have had a concussion but he seemed generally sound of body. _A little sex can't hurt can it?_

"Mmm. I wonder what that could be." She stepped out of her bathing suit and dropped the stolen cardigan on the floor. "Well, I don't know how good an idea what you have in mind is with you in your condition, but I'm ready to try it. This has been one hell of a dry spell—oh." Sherlock was fast asleep when Layla finally walked back into the bedroom butt naked.

"Damn it." She finished undressing him down to his underwear and pulled him, with a great deal of effort, up on to pillows and then curled up beside him.

"If I'm not getting any from _normal_ Sherlock, I'm going to cuddle the crap out of you while you're unconscious my good sir." Layla burrowed into his warmth, laying her head on his chest and draping her arm and leg over his stomach and thigh respectively. She fell asleep quickly, her body worn from the exertions of the day and perfectly comfortable in this new position of intimacy.

Sometime before daylight she was woken by a sudden lack of warmth.

"Sherlock? Where've you gone?" She felt around for him beside her and found only the bed clothes.

"I'm here." He was sitting by her feet. "You were drooling on me." The sound of disgust in his voice assured Layla that he had finally returned to normal.

"Sorry. I may have taken advantage of you in your delirium." _Not as much advantage as I had wanted._

"Indeed." His voice was guarded and hollow sounding, like he was upset with her for something. She assumed for existing around him while he was mentally compromised. He did so hate betraying the fact that he had emotions or affections.

"Hey, don't get all distant and stuff because of this. I knew it was your head injury and not you talking, please don't pull away from me." She sat up and reached out towards where she had heard his voice.

"I'm not, just reflecting on how sharp a razor's edge the events of today teetered on. I owe you my life, Layla." She finally made contact with his shoulder. It was still bare and did not shrink from her touch.

"Don't worry about it. I did it for selfish reasons. There is no way I'd survive you dying again." She scooted closer to him slowly, waiting for him to shrug away from her. He didn't.

"Thank you." The gravity of his voice was like a punch to Layla's stomach. It had never occurred to her to _not_ save him but apparently the action had really affected Sherlock.

"You didn't have to help me, but you did and I appreciate it." He turned towards her, his face in shadow, and lifted her chin slightly. "When I said you were beautiful, I didn't mean your appearance. That is of no consequence. You are a work of art as an individual. Complex and intelligent and unpredictable. That is the beauty of a living creature. John was correct." He released her face and rested his chin against his templed fingers.

Layla didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. She could have asked him what John had been right about or how he came to the conclusion that it was a good idea to compliment her. She could have jumped on top of him and rewarded him for his kind words but she didn't. Instead she gently patted his shoulder and laid back to watch Sherlock stare at the opposite wall until she fell back asleep. He allowed her to stay there curled up beside him, emanating warmth and muttering in her sleep as he pondered. After all, she had saved his life, what was a little drool in comparison?

Her muttering did not remain as such for long and, by the time the sun began to rise, her penchant for talking in her sleep was in full swing. Sherlock would have normally just disregarded the absurd combination of outbursts and slurs but this night they had a more explicit theme. Around the fifth time she groaned his name his still recovering brain was no longer able to push aside the instincts of his body.

"Layla. Wake up." He shook her shoulder and snapped in front of her face. Her eyes fluttered open and she blushed furiously.

"Was—was I talking?" She bit her lip and winced as Sherlock nodded. "So… did I say anything interesting?" She wiped the sleep from her eyes and swung her legs off the bed.

"It wasn't exactly the speaking that you were doing that would qualify as interesting."

"Oh. Ha. Oops, sorry—woah." Layla had stood to gather some clothing and caught sight of Sherlock. "Not talking was I? Last I remember I was holding on to you for dear life and screaming your name, in my dream that is." She smiled as his erection twitched with the description of her dream. "I wasn't—oh I don't know—moaning your name was I, Sherlock?"

"You may have said it five times with mounting gusto." He didn't look away from the distant point he was staring towards.

"Ah, I see. You didn't like your body interrupting your thinking so you woke me up to get rid of the stimulus." Layla strolled idly towards Sherlock with deep swaying motions of her hips. Her dream had left her in a certain state of mind and Layla always enjoyed inciting Sherlock to sex. It always ended up being the best sort; hot, heavy and a little bit vindictive.

"Precisely. You're currently negating the effort, so either leave or put some clothing on." He chanced a glance at Layla's approach and then returned to contemplating. Layla noticed the look and smiled, she had broken his concentration enough to draw his gaze. That meant she had a pretty good chance of successfully seducing him. Maybe her dry spell was going to end after all.

"Oh, I don't know, you interrupted what was sure to be a rewarding dream. I think I deserve compensation." She skirted around the edge of the bed and picked up his clothes, making an effort to present her breasts and bottom with each sweeping motion. Sherlock's eye darted to her every time she bent over and encouraged Layla further.

"What do you recommend? I am in no way capable of restoring you to that dream."

"No, no you aren't but you could help me out another way." Layla leaned into the bathroom and dropped the clothes before resting, still nude, against the door frame. "I didn't get my happy ending, and well, I haven't had one in ever so long. I need one." She pretended to clean her nails and cuticles as she spoke, allowing Sherlock time to appraise her, ostensibly without her knowledge. He did so gratuitously. "I need one terribly, so terribly I'm dreaming about it. Constantly. Now, I can, from my powers of observation, deduce that you too are in such a position. I think that we two are in a prime situation to reopen our agreement." Layla smiled indulgently up at Sherlock, who was no longer looking at her. He shook his head.

"I have more important things to focus on, I need to—"

"Oh, come on Sherlock! I can see your massive boner." She pointed to his still erect penis and waved her arms wildly. "Let's fuck like bunnies! That _is_ what you keep me around for…" She set her hands on her hips as Sherlock turned a contemptuous eye on her.

"You have thirty minutes." Sherlock moved out of his pose and scooted back to rest his head against the pillows.

"Finally, I've never had to work so hard to convince a man to stop thinking and just fuck me. Christ."


	12. The Tales of Brave Ulysses

Thirty minutes was not enough time. At least not for what Layla had in mind; she hadn't had sex since before she had left for America and a drought such as that always required a heavier rain shower, to extend the metaphor. Not only that but with Sherlock lying uninterested, that is besides the obvious physical sign to the contrary, she would be required to do everything herself. Thirty minutes was just not enough time. So she decided to shake things up.

Bypassing the obvious approach, Layla mounted the bed and crawled atop Sherlock and over his hips to settle on his stomach. Before he had a chance to sit up and interrogate her Layla had 'pinned' Sherlock to the bed by his biceps and swooped down to latch onto his open mouth, caught in the midst of a surprised rebuttal.

She managed to steal away a deep, non-reciprocated kiss while Sherlock worked her hands off arms. She was still savoring the soft lushness of his lips and the taste of him when Sherlock grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed Layla off of his face.

"_That_ is not what I had agreed to." He continued to hold Layla off of him with her arms pinned to her sides. Layla wanted to be sexy and snide but the look on his face did not bode well for that approach. Instead, she sighed with a shrug at his crinkled nose.

"Disgust is not the appropriate response, Sherlock. I've been well-informed that I'm quite good at the kissing." She spoke over his next response. "AND, that sort of thing usually goes hand in hand with the rest, you know, in normal couples. I know we're not _normal_ or a _couple_ but I thought I'd give it a try, as an experiment. It's not like we haven't done it before…" She turned away to hide her disappointment, although the action was, of course, futile with Sherlock.

"You can't be seriously disappointed. I thought I was the one who was concussed yesterday; you have no reason to think I would suddenly be receptive to so futile an action in place of the intercourse I had allowed. Especially considering the time limit I assigned." He narrowed his eyes up at Layla and then tilted his head to the side. "Did I say something while concussed that led you to believe that our situation had somehow changed?"

This conversation was not going in the direction Layla had intended so, considering the sheer desperateness of her situation, she decided to return to the subject of kissing.

"You know that one of a woman's primary erogenous zones is the mouth. I know you do, so you are also aware the stimulation provided by kissing is conducive to your goal of getting me out of your hair." Sherlock blinked at her with what was clearly impatient frustration but which Layla reacted to like cluelessness.

"I'll get off faster if you kiss me simultaneously." He rolled his eyes at her coarseness and held her struggling arms tighter to her sides as he tried to move out from under her.

"You could ask John." Layla said it under her breath with a dismissive shrug but this was the first thing Sherlock had _really_ reacted to in a while. His nose twitched and with a deep breath he released her arms. No sooner than she had the mobility to 'hold him down' again Layla found she was being rolled over. Sherlock was on top of her quicker than she thought possible and had locked her with his most intense blue gaze.

"As a matter of thoroughness." He seemed imperious as he set his jaw in response to Layla's poorly hidden joy.

"Of course. Thoroughness. No lack of knowledge is permissible, after all." Layla spread her legs wide beneath him and ran her hands up his arms. The flex and flush of his muscles and the branching bulge of his veins and tendons giving her hands something to enjoy as Sherlock prepared himself for the overly intimate engagement. They had, now that Layla thought about it, never actually kissed while having sex; as part of foreplay, yes; but during, it had always been about the other stuff.

When his hesitation lingered, Layla ventured a suggestion: "Maybe start with something not my mouth and then you can ease into mouth and lips and tongue while all the downstairs action is happening. And don't look at me like that, I know you can multi-task." Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth and shifted his weight from one arm to the other like he was trying to decide upon the best approach. Layla swallowed a giggle and enmeshed her fingers in his (finally) curling locks.

"Here, I'll show you." She pulled him closer to her, close enough that he had to settle onto one of his elbows and the rest of his body was forced to rest lightly on top of Layla. She shivered with the contact; it had been too long since she had been engulfed in the heat of Sherlock, surrounded by his solid warmth and strength. Once she had him near, Layla leaned up and planted a swift line of nips down the length of his neck and across his sweeping shoulder. Sherlock breathed in sharply with the sensation and, taking Layla's cue of hitched up hips, maneuvered himself before her entrance.

Layla finished her exploration of Sherlock's neck by leaving a matching trail of slightly harder bites up the other side. She gently tugged on the bottom of his ear with her teeth and then breathed into his ear.

"Demonstration's over. Your turn to show what you've learned." She tenderly, probably too tenderly, kissed the ridge of his cheekbone and then laid back onto the pillow. Sherlock held himself away from her and resumed his inspective stare, his brow darkening with every second.

"I promise I won't read too much into it." Layla smiled quickly as she correctly addressed Sherlock's concern. He eased up on the melancholy dawning across his features and leaned lower over Layla. He did not, as Layla had expected, start by imitating her approach. Nor did he really follow her suggestions at all, Sherlock went straight for the mouth. Layla mewled contentedly as his lips found hers, so soft and warm and even tender. She found herself thinking the same thing she had with their first kiss, that Sherlock's lips were nothing like the man. His tongue, however, was; direct and abrupt it parted her lips and teeth and made its presence known to her but with all its abrasiveness, it was astonishingly impressive and adept.

Layla's other hand joined the first in Sherlock's curls and held him close to her as she initiated the use of teeth, pulling on his deliciously full bottom lip when he moved to draw away from her. Layla knew it was to position himself for the main event but she was far too invested in the increasingly passionate snogging to allow it.

"Layla, I—" Sherlock wasn't even able to protest against her impeding as she reattached to his mouth. Fortunately for the entire endeavor, her movement to kiss him positioned Layla perfectly for Sherlock to enter. He did so as she sucked eagerly on his lip and the combined sensations left them both slightly stunned, Sherlock more so than Layla. He stuttered inside of her falling completely still as Layla drew out the gentle caress of his mouth, holding his face now in her hands.

His pause hardly lasted more than a few seconds. The feeling of him inside of her tested Layla's ability to remain still and she was soon flexing and rocking against him while the intensity of her tongue and teeth increased. Sherlock's response was proportionate, drawing out of her and plunging back in with the movements of their kiss. The interaction of their mouths kept their thrusts short but startlingly powerful. The close contact of their bodies, hip against hip, stomach sliding over stomach and breasts pressed against chest heightened the sense of their mingling and both were sweating and moaning much sooner than usual. The near constant stimulation of Layla's nub and the long-desired addition of the intimate kiss pushed her over the edge quickly and much to both Sherlock's and her surprise.

She was forced to break the kiss as her breath burst from her in short gasps, each colored with the gentle croons of delight inspired by her delicious orgasm. Toes curling and hips jerking, Layla caused a similar reaction in Sherlock not long thereafter and he fell forward onto her in the throes of his peak with the most surprising of reactions, a sloppy kiss to her mouth and a neater one sealing it on her cheek once he'd emptied into her completely.

Layla lay completely still as Sherlock panted against her ear and tried to understand what had just happened. She decided that Sherlock too had benefited from the combined sensations of mouth and genitals and had decided to capitalize on it during his orgasm. That, however, did not explain the peck on the cheek. _Maybe it's the concussion._

"Don't read too much into it." Sherlock had felt her body stiffen in surprise and mumbled a reproach in her ear several minutes later.

"Point taken." She, of course, did read far too much into it as she stroked his hair, yet another intimate gesture she had been allowed today. As she did so she felt for the crowbar's mark. There it was, rough and still swollen beneath the pile of his hair.

"How's your head?"

"Not normal, I have a minor headache." Sherlock slipped off of her and laid back. "But that's to be expected."

"If you say so." Layla yawned and stretched her limbs. She had no intention of moving from that spot for a while, a proper nap was required before she could do anything.

"Don't get too comfortable, we have things to do today." Sherlock had somehow managed to stand from the bed, pad around the room and get mostly dressed without Layla even noticing his absence.

"Uh, why?" She kept her eyes closed and rolled over onto her side.

"Yesterday was too close, we need to ascertain our assailants and the means by which they were so prompt in assembling against us. If I counted correctly we had a team of at least eleven following us. We need to be sure that they can't do so again." Sherlock unzipped the largest of the suitcases and fished out a set of underwear, shorts and blouse. Layla groaned loudly as he tossed them on top of her.

"I don't want to move."

"You don't have to, I merely offer your accompanying me as a suggestion. After what happened yesterday—"

"Urgh! Okay, you're right. I can't sit here while you go off adventuring anymore." Sherlock smiled and flitted from the room as Layla slumped onto the floor and crawled into her clothing.

"Here I am. Dressed and moving. Now what?" Layla trudged heavily into the main room of the cabin and found Sherlock scouring the place. Bags were emptied and turned inside out, furniture toppled, even Fluffy's hutch was opened and emptied and the little guy was happily hopping around the room unhindered.

"Where are they?" Sherlock turned from pulling out the tampons from the innermost pocket of Layla's purse and stared at her frantically.

"Where's what? You're going to have to be more specific." Layla stepped wearily over the piles of random things and opened the refrigerator. She sincerely hoped that it would be pre-stocked, she was famished.

"The keys. To the garages and the vehicle and the beach house. The keys, Layla!" Sherlock hurled her gutted purse to the ground and then loped over to her in the kitchen.

"They're in the bathroom." Layla collected a block of cheese and some crackers and stepped calmly around Sherlock. "I had them in my shoe, so when I stripped last night I left them on the counter." He took off to the back room and reemerged almost instantly with the assortment.

"Why do you need all of them? I thought that we had abandoned the bungalow." Layla tore a chuck out of the cheese and munched on it with a cracker as she watched Sherlock inspect the keys. After finally choosing the one he had been searching for Sherlock pocketed the keys, the three in one pocket, the chosen one in the other.

"We're going back. I need to know who's following us and the evidence will be clearest there."

* * *

"Holy crap, that is one monster huge foot print!" Layla tiptoed around the debris of the back door which was scattered around the tracks made in blood, the blood Sherlock had smeared across the floor. By now it had dried into the perfect stamp of their assailants' feet. A couple normal sized tracks and then this enormous set of prints.

"It is indeed. Don't—" Sherlock caught Layla's shoulder, "don't step in the evidence. You'll contaminate it." He bent over and measured the width and length of the boot print and then the grooves in the boot's sole tracks.

"Uh, how was I going to contaminate it if you're just going to be measuring dimensions? It's not exactly wet." Layla rolled her eyes and crept around the rest of the ransacked room. This sight was becoming too familiar to Layla, it seemed nearly every place she lived at, since she met Sherlock, ended up looking like this.

"I was going to collect samples for pollen analysis," Sherlock tucked his magnifying glass into his back pocket and stood from his kneeling position, "but I know who this is already." He stepped away from the print and stalked around the rest of the room inspecting the ground all the while.

"Well, like I said, it's freaking enormous so I'm not surprised you already know. I mean, there can only be so many people with two feet long feet." Layla hopped up on the bar counter and sat perched while Sherlock finished his survey. "Two foot long feet? Two feet long feet. No, ah… twenty four inch long feet?"

"It's not the length, actually," Sherlock cut short her musings, "that is so informative but the width. An abnormally large foot print with normal dimensions could just be a sign of an abnormally large person. This foot print, however, is more than abnormally large, it's egregiously wide. Look at it," he pointed excitedly back at the print, "the sheer breadth of it makes it nearly more square than oblong. Such a growth pattern is indicative of a very specific pituitary disorder. An adenoma which increases the production of the human growth hormone." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and began pacing the length of the room, he was settling into one of his lengthy verbal deductions. He was not, therefore, pleased when Layla interrupted him.

"So, he's a giant, like literally." Sherlock's head shot up and graced Layla with the snidest of scowls.

"No, if you'd let me finish," she shook her head and leaned back, this was going to be a long one, "you would have learned that gigantism is a pituitary condition that creates enormous people, but not usually disproportionate ones. Such a person's foot would be incredibly large but not this wide. This distortion of the proportions of the body is indicative of acromegaly, a condition of adult onset when the long bones of the body can no longer grow lengthwise but instead add onto their width, hence the thickening of this man's feet."

Sherlock looked up from the floor, having presumably finished his visual sweep of it, and began scrutinizing the walls and furniture, what was left of it.

"Ah, and here, see." He sprung towards the wall adjacent to the back door. The edges of it had been blown off and were scattered around the rest of the room but a good hunk on the wall was still intact. On this section was left a swipe of blood.

"Oooh, more blood. Big deal." Layla was growing bored, and hot. The house was out of commission and un-air conditioned making it nearly insufferable for her.

"Yes, it is, because you know I only splattered the planted blood on the floor. This then must be his, or another unknown man's blood. Most likely, it's his though. Look at the swath of the smudge, easily seven inches across. Only a man with his condition could have created such a mark. He must have been injured in the explosion." Sherlock removed a pair of tweezers from his pocket and plucked that segment of the wallpaper off and set it in an evidence bag.

"Okay, we've got a huge ass dude chasing us who is now injured along with a couple of his little buddies. That's not much to go on, Sherlock."

"Oh but that is not all we have Layla. We know that this larger man came on his own, he was the one who set off the explosion, that is clear from the debris lodged in his prints. The blood was fresher when he stepped into it and so held more wood splinters than the men who arrived later. You can also see from the placement of their steps that they were walking around the remains of the explosion. Our big friend tracked the blood, then tried to leave." Sherlock pointed to the wood shards' scatter pattern and range which covered some of the other tracks of the larger boot but didn't the smaller ones.

"Fine. The big guy's working alone. Still, not that much help." Layla slid off the counter and peeked in the fridge which was, of course, emptied because of Sherlock's raiding of it the previous day.

"Luckily for us, Layla, I know of just such a man. An assassin with famously huge hands known for killing people with a single blow. A certain Lamar Jenns, an ex-professional strongman competitor from Canada. He's been an object of my observations before."

"Oh lovely, we have Arnold Schwarzenegger after us." Layla collapsed onto the sole standing chair and made a point to look as despondent as possible. Sherlock ignored her.

"No, think bigger."

"Lou Ferrigno?"

"Bigger."

"Andre the Giant?"

"Just about, but more muscled and not as tall."

"So, basically the Hulk. We have the Hulk after us, just not green and presumably more intelligent." Layla flailed dramatically in her chair as it creaked threateningly.

"I wouldn't count on it, the man's gratuitous use of steroids in combination with his own hormonal imbalance has done some damage to his higher processes. I believe the Hulk is the closest approximation." Sherlock tucked the variety of sample bags back into his pockets and began sifting through the debris of the explosion proper.

"You know about the Hulk?"

"I'm not completely unversed in popular culture. I too had a young adulthood." Layla smiled and tried to spin around towards Sherlock. She ended up in a heap on top of the broken remains of the chair. Apparently it hadn't been as un-abused as she had assumed.

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. No need to ask or anything." Layla stood and brushed the dirt off of her legs.

"I know."

"So, where do we find this killer hulk guy? Or have I also missed that in the foot print." She peered over Sherlock's shoulder and then back at the foot print several feet away.

"No, but here's our starting point." He leaned back from the rubble with a pack of matches in his hand.

"Good lord, who uses matches anymore?" Layla stooped over and read the advertisement covering the back sheaf.

"A man whose fingers are too large to properly manipulate a lighter." Sherlock smiled and tucked the packet into his breast pocket.

"So, where's Jeanette's?"

"Let's find out." Sherlock already had his phone out and was typing in the number from the matches.

* * *

"Cripes, this place is sha-a-ady." Layla huddled into the booth of the burnt out hole in the wall they had stopped into and tried not to touch anything.

"Precisely. Where else to escape unnoticed from the authorities?" Sherlock sat with his back towards her and instead trying to keep watch on the rest of the restaurant. "Switch sides with me." He stood and shooed Layla from her bench.

"Okay, so what are we doing? Just waiting until he shows his face?" Layla set her elbows on the table to rest her head in her hands and then immediately regretted it. "Which, if you're still deciding, I'm going to wholeheartedly vote against." She tried to wipe the sticky grime off her elbows and onto the fabric of the seat. It didn't work.

"_I_ am watching for one of his associates or him, but we won't be here for long. I'd hate for you to draw attention to us." Layla turned from trying to clean off her elbows to glare at Sherlock. He kept his eyes trained on the diner but allowed a tiny twitch to pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, sure thing, joke at my expense. I'm just grateful you've discovered the art of humor at long last." She finally rid her elbows of the gunge to realize that her entire person was probably covered with filth from fidgeting around in the grimy booth. She gave up trying to stay clean but made a point not to touch the table surface again.

"Canna get ya something?" Layla looked up hesitantly at the waitress. She sounded American.

"Yes, thank you. Two coffees please." Sherlock smiled politely at the woman and returned to watching the entrance. Layla stared at him, she hadn't wanted coffee, and he had smiled.

"Are you ill?" He blinked coldly at Layla's question and went back to ignoring her.

"Because, you were polite." Once again the icy stare.

"Fine, you've learned humor and some social skills," she continued when her jesting didn't earn any response at all, "no, but really. I swear I've not yet encountered a single New Zealander since I got here. First my cab driver was English and now—what?" Sherlock's attention snapped back to Layla.

"Describe him." He was paying her more mind than he had in some time outside of their sex that morning, and even then, Layla couldn't be sure where his mind was.

"Uh…" She squirmed under the close scrutiny. _Why isn't he blinking? This is too much pressure, I can't handle it!_ "Just simmer down, I—I don't remember, give me a sec." Sherlock tilted his head in puzzlement but didn't 'simmer down.'

"Was he thin, obese, tall, short, tan, fair? Use your words, Layla, you've hardly ever had problem speaking your mind before."

"Just—just hold on. I mean, I really only saw the back of his head and little glimpses of his face in the rearview mirror." Sherlock huffed impatiently and shook his head with disappointment.

"From here on out, you should use your senses to observe your surroundings, that _is_ what you have them for."

"No, no, I did _observe_ some things. You just didn't give me a chance to say." She frowned at Sherlock's patronizingly raised brow. "He said he retired from the army."

"Yes, short hair, tanned face, worn eyes." Sherlock wasn't asking but Layla affirmed with a nod of her head anyway. "Hm, he was my driver as well. Interesting." His eyes drifted back to the entrance as he fell into his contemplative silence.

"I just thought it was weird, you know, here with the waitress, who by the way still hasn't come back." Layla leaned out of the booth and looked around for their server, she was nowhere in sight.

"Yes, it is an enlightening development. It seems we've stumbled into a foreigner's hub. Not one of the people here speaks with a native accent." He nodded towards the rest of the diner and then locked his eyes onto Layla's. "I believe it's time we left."

He rose smoothly from the booth and walked quickly towards the entrance with Layla stumbling behind in his wake. She shivered as she felt every eye in the place fall on her.

"What the hell was going on in there?" The two of them hustled down the nearest side street trying to put as much space between them and the obvious crime nest they had stumbled into.

"Wait." Sherlock held out his arm to catch Layla's momentum and began sniffing around.

"Oh what now, you damn blood hound?" Layla fell into his arm and then bounced back to settle against a trash bin.

"Singed hair and cocoa butter." He caught Layla around the waist and dragged her around the corner.

"What—" She was soon silenced by the clap of his hand over her mouth. Moments later a truly enormous, oiled up man trudged by heading in the direction of the dingy restaurant.

"Was that him?" Layla whispered cautiously as Sherlock crept back around the corner.

"Indeed, come on. He's not stopping in the restaurant; he must be staying around here. That diner is the crime ring's rest lounge, as it were. He would naturally take up residence nearby." He grabbed hold of Layla's hand and towed her behind him and after the huge man.

"Are you going to tell me how you knew he was coming, what's his name again?"

"Lamar Jenns. The smell of burnt hair from the explosion last night wouldn't fade very quickly, especially if it was his own hair, and the cocoa butter is to treat the stretching of his skin over his constantly broadening extremities. That and the obvious oiling effect you undoubtedly observed."

Layla shook her head in disbelief, Sherlock's mind truly worked like no one else's. They continued following the hit man around the next block at a fair distance until he turned into an abysmal dump of a warehouse.

"Did he look a bit… off to you?" Layla peered up at Sherlock as the two of them caught a glimpse of the man's face.

"One of his eyes seems to have been injured in the explosion yesterday." Sherlock moved rapidly towards the building and peeked around the door frame.

"Great, following a giant, one-eyed man back into his lair. Sounds like a terrific idea. Let's hope he's got some sheep for a clean escape. Or that he's not a cannibal." Layla shook her head and scampered after Sherlock.

"What are you blathering about?" He whipped around to her before the entrance, frustration etched onto his face. Apparently all these days cooped up together was wearing his patience with Layla thin.

"Nothing. Just the classicist in me finding some unnerving parallels." She shrugged as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"He is not a Cyclops, Layla. He is not going to eat you alive. I hope." Sherlock glanced once more around the facing street and then ducked into the warehouse.

"If he tries, you and I'd better get ready to be damned clever."

The interior of the warehouse wasn't nearly as dilapidated as the exterior, in fact it was air conditioned, well lit and filled with music. Layla sighed with relief and then crouched behind an exposed, steel half-wall. Sherlock appraised their situation quickly: one entrance near at hand, no other one visible; a variety of weapons in the form of rebar scraps left lying about the place; one incredibly strong and enormous man somewhere listening to music, if it could be called that, at an unnecessarily high volume.

He ignored Layla as she tugged at his sleeve and searched out the man. He wasn't clearly in view but they had just followed him inside, so he had to be there somewhere. There, at an industrial sized refrigerated room door. He catalogued that for future reference, it could come to be useful. He continued watching, and ignoring the increasing vigor of Layla's tugs, as the man crossed the open space and sat down before a rickety television set with what was presumably his dinner in hand. Sherlock finally turned around, fed up with Layla's childish pursuit for attention and found her otherwise stock still, a gigantic Doberman inches from her face.

_What do I do?_ She mouthed as the dog snuffled around her ears and neck.

_Stay completely still._

_I'm already doing that! _He eyes were nearly bugging out of her head as the dog's snout travelled lower and began nuzzling her hands.

_It smells the rabbit, just remain still._ Sherlock slowly reached out to calm Layla's shaking arms. She was shivering like a leaf, and for good reason. The dog's head was bigger than hers.

"Bruiser! Here!" A whistle sounded from the other side of the warehouse and the dog trotted off leaving Layla pale as a sheet. Sherlock removed his hand from her arm and refocused on the assassin eating several yards away.

The music changed again, some other variation on the industrial clamor that had been peeling out moments before, to Layla and Sherlock's benefit. The phone in Layla's bag began blasting electronic tones of a very distinctive and sharp tune. Her eyes, once again, bulged from her skull as she scrambled around to try and silence the noise. This Lamar must have been very dull indeed because the mounting crescendo of orchestral and synthetic melody was clearly discrete from the jamming guitar clash of his own music.

"What is that?" Sherlock snapped in a hushed whisper as Layla rifled through the bottomless pit of her purse.

"My phone…" Layla whispered back still struggling to locate it.

"Why?" Sherlock sounded perfectly incensed even while whispering.

"I don't know, I like _Doctor Who_, the complex—oh, not the song. I guess I forgot to put it on silent." She dumped the contents of her bag on to the floor and winced apologetically at Sherlock.

"What part of we're going to spy on a potentially homicidal giant did not seem like an occasion we should perhaps put our phones on silent for?"

"I don't know, I just didn't think about it…" Layla avoided Sherlock's infuriated scowl as she finally grabbed the source of the noise.

"Of course not, your mind—are you going to silence it at all?" Sherlock reached for the phone in Layla's hand suddenly but too late.

"Yeah, hello?"

"You're anweri—" Sherlock practically growled before Layla slapped a palm over his mouth and mimed _It's John._ Sherlock breathed deeply and removed her hand to sit back on his heels.

"Yeah, I'm here. Just—just in a library." Layla grimaced at the horrible on the spot lie to explain her hushed tones.

_A library?_ Sherlock sneered at her and she shook her head in panic.

"Oh, no, it's fine." She placed a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and fidgeted around again until Sherlock looked back at her.

_What are you doing?_ He jerked his chin at her phone.

_I'm on hold_, she winced as Sherlock's contempt became even more visible on his face.

"Yeah, well no. I can't really leave—" she paused and Sherlock could hear John's voice on the other end, "—um for reasons, woman's reasons—" Layla flailed around as her improvisational skills failed her yet again. "—yeah, there's a man stalking me, yeah, and—and he's outside, waiting outside this library. No, no, I—I already called them. Yep, they're on their way to get him, arrest him, yeah." Layla pressed the pads of her fingers into her eyes as her simple fib became a full blown fiction. An awful one at that.

_Hang up. Now._ Layla batted away Sherlock's outstretched hand with a _no!_ and turned her attention back to John on the other line.

"Oh! Wow, how exciting," She mouthed _he's going to propose_, "oh, she already said yes, that's excellent," _to Mary_, she locked eyes with Sherlock who wrinkled his nose, "yeah, I can come back for it, for sure—in September, yeah lovely." She swatted off Sherlock's hand again and swiveled away with her hand over the mouthpiece.

_Give me that._

_No._

_Give it to me._ Sherlock's patience was waning exponentially.

_No. _"—yeah, still here. It's just the reception." Layla replaced her hand and snarled at Sherlock, "Let go! I'm talking. He can't know I'm in danger." She scooted further away from his hand.

_Give it to me. Now!_

"Yeah, I'll talk to you then, congrats." She tapped the phone off and slouched back nearer to Sherlock after he snatched it from her hands and shut it down. "Wow, I can't believe they're getting married." She continued whispering, not bothering to mime out her thoughts.

"Shut up just, shh."

"I know you're jealous and all but come on, you _can_ be happy for your best friend, this is—"

"Shut up!" Sherlock pointed back towards the open space of the warehouse and with a hiss. _Notice anything different?_ Layla glanced back at the rickety television set and the now empty chair.

"No giant." Layla whispered and noticed how loud it sounded to her ears. "No music." She bit her lip as Sherlock nodded with exasperation and wheeled around to try and find the massive man again.

"Shit." She gasped as Sherlock shoved the panic stricken Layla towards the entrance.

"Run!"

**A/N: Acromegaly is a real condition, I have an uncle with it and the man just cannot use a lighter. Just in case you guys were wondering!**


	13. Pearly Queen

Layla did run. Or at least she ran as far as she could, and then barreled to a halt in front of the sole exit as a single shot rang out behind her.

"Didn't you hear me? Run!" Sherlock sprinted up behind her and skidded to her side, at the ready.

"Just a small problem." Layla stood rigidly still and cleared her throat. "And by small, I actually mean gigantic and snarling." Sherlock glanced back to find the Doberman guarding the door.

"He's not attacking."

"Yeah, well, I'm not too keen on giving him a reason to, what with the big teeth and all." Layla edged back against Sherlock and tried to push him in the other direction. He didn't budge.

"Would you prefer a colossal hand?" Layla glanced around the see the assassin plodding heavily towards them.

"I thought you shot him!" She took a step closer to the dog but promptly stepped back when it began to growl.

"I did."

"Well, maybe you should try again!"

"An excellent idea, however, it seems as though he's planned ahead." Layla peeked around Sherlock again and then whipped back around to stare at the dog.

"Okay, he's got a vest on, so shoot for his head." She backed even closer to Sherlock as the Doberman began to advance. "Anytime now, the dog's getting frisky over here."

"It would be counter-productive."

"Counter-productive? I think not dying is extremely productive!"

"I meant for our investigation, I can hardly interrogate him with a bullet in his skull." Sherlock's absolute calm made Layla panic even more.

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU CAN'T INTERROGATE HIM, I WANT TO LEAVE HERE WITH ALL MY LIMBS UNMAULED!"

The gun rang out again twice in succession and Layla turned around with her hands over her ears. "Shoot him in the head!" She gestured hysterically at the man still advancing on them. "Obviously he can't be stopped by shots anywhere else. I knew this was a bad idea."

"You need to keep calm, Layla. Keep your wits about you." Sherlock took a step forward, towards Lamar, and tucked his gun into his back pocket.

"YOU PUTTING THE GUN AWAY DOES NOT HELP ME KEEP CALM!"

"I have a plan." Sherlock moved even further away from Layla and stooped over to pick up a steel pole.

"Why couldn't you just shoot him in the head?" Layla hopped backwards as the dog lunged towards her.

"You distract the dog while I take care of Mr. Jebbs here."

Layla leapt away from the dog again and darted across the room. When Lamar jumped towards her, Sherlock took the opportunity to slam the pole across the flat of the man's back. He stumbled forward but didn't fall, his attention now redirected to Sherlock.

"Don't run from the dog," Sherlock ducked a ponderous swing and shouted across the warehouse, "it will only give chase and I can guarantee you, it is faster!"

"Well running had been the tactic before!" Layla turned around and stuck her hands out in front of her. "What else was I suppose to do?" The dog slowed to a trot but continued backing her into a corner. Dread washed over her as she felt cool steel of the walk-in freezer block her escape.

"Arm yourself!" Sherlock evaded another strike and landed an ineffectual left-hook in the giant's side.

"With what!"

"The spray!" Layla stopped staring at Sherlock's ridiculous attempt to out-box the ex 'World's Strongest Man' and dug in her bag again.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" She scrambled to find the tiny aerosol can as the dog crept closer and closer, teeth bared and snarling. "Ah! But won't it hurt it!" She held out the spray and looked up in time to see Sherlock gathered into a bone crushing bear hug.

"Just. Don't. Spray. Its. Eyes." Sherlock stuck a thumb into Lamar's good eye and was dropped like a hot coal to the floor.

"EEEE!" Layla screamed and sprayed a short burst into the dog's open mouth. It immediately dropped onto its haunches and started pawing at its muzzle with a yelp. Unfortunately, still whimpering and shaking its mouth, the dog stood back up and stepped warily towards Layla.

"That's it puppy, come and get me." Layla slowly opened the freezer door and stepped back into the chilled room. The Doberman pounced again as Layla ran back into the room.

"Sorry!" She skirted around the animal and then managed to dart out of the room as the raging mass of fur and teeth clattered into a shelf full of frozen food. Slamming the door closed behind her, Layla reassessed their situation, it wasn't much improved. There was still a gargantuan man sparring with Sherlock.

"I did it! I distracted the dog!" Layla sprinted over to the corner of the warehouse where Sherlock was still busy trying to dance around their enormous assailant, and doing a surprisingly good job of it.

"Good for you!" Sarcasm.

"Really, you're going to be a smart ass in _this_ situation?" She picked up another scrap of metal and hovered around the edge, looking for an opportunity to strike.

"Stop flailing and do something useful!"

"I'm trying to find a spot to hit him!"

"Like I said, stop and do something useful! Find something to tie him up with!" Sherlock dropped onto the floor and tackled Lamar around the knees. "Hurry!" Sherlock shouted irritably as he rolled out from under the toppling behemoth of a man.

"Want the plant spray?" Layla dropped the blanket she had found and instead grabbed the dog leash hanging on the wall.

"No, just the leash, thank you!" Sherlock was kneeling on the man's back and struggling to hold one of his arms behind him. Layla ran to him and looped one end around the hand Sherlock had more or less secured and held it as tightly as she could as Sherlock hauled Lamar's other arm behind him.

"Ah, quickly! He's so fucking strong!" Layla leaned backwards with all her might as Lamar pulled his arm back towards the ground.

"Do you to really think you can tie me up?" Lamar growled below them and tried to buck Sherlock off of him.

"Yes. I know we can." Sherlock moved his weight onto Lamar's wounded leg.

"Argh!" His body shuddered with pain as Sherlock pressed on the bullet wound. Layla joined in, stepping on the other leg causing Lamar to buckle even further. Sherlock made use of the slackening of strength, throwing the leash around Lamar's free hand and cinching the two of them together in a fast knot.

"See? There we have." Sherlock stood up slowly and brushed the dirt off of his trousers. He was sweating, covered in saw dust and gasping for breath, but they, or rather he, _had_ just wrestled a man three times his size to the floor.

"Congratulations, my hands are tied! Now what are you going to do?" Lamar twisted around so that he was on his side, "Torture me?"

"No, don't be stupid. I'm going to give you a chance to answer my questions and then, if you cooperate, I'll leave you here unharmed. If you don't, I'm going to put you in the freezer with your dog." Sherlock began pacing around Lamar's sprawled out form, that look of smug superiority gracing his face. Meanwhile, Layla collapsed on her back shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline and watched Sherlock appreciatively.

"If you're especially good, I might even call for an ambulance." Sherlock leaned over and inspected Lamar's good eye, or what was his good eye before Sherlock stuck his thumb in it. "And by the looks of it, you are in desperate need of one. That eye won't last long without medical treatment, then you'll be completely blinded—"

"I told you he was a Cyclops!" Layla giggled giddily from the floor.

"—as I was saying, you'll be completely blinded, or at best mostly blind, which is no good for an assassin." Sherlock rose again and folded his hands behind his back. "So, what do you say?"

Lamar chuckled and struggled to sit up. "Sure, I'll answer your questions, this is just a job after all."

"Excellent. Now, who sent you after us? What was the job?"

"To make sure you were dead. That was until that door exploded in my face." Lamar flexed against the leash and turned his head to try to locate Sherlock.

"Oh stop trying to escape, you're in no place to do so, you can't see at all." Sherlock stepped back and quietly retrieved the metal scrap Layla had dropped earlier.

"No, but I can hear. And you're one scrawny twig of a man. If I can hear you, I can catch you." He pulled harder at the leather leash.

"Maybe, sure, but what then? You can't use a phone, can't call for help. Will you stumble into Jeanette's? What will they do for you there? They certainly won't call for an ambulance there and risk bringing the authorities into their nest of thieves. So answer the question, and completely this time. I notice a half answer. You know that I do." Sherlock sneered down at him, and stepped forward to set the metal pole against the exposed wound in Lamar's leg.

"Sherlock—" Layla grabbed his pant leg and shook her head, "just let him answer." She looked at the pole and then back at Sherlock's face. He breathed deeply and set aside the pole.

Lamar chuckled again, wickedly, and turned his face in Layla's direction. "Circe."

"What?" Layla looked to Sherlock for confirmation, explanation, something but received nothing. He seemed just as perplexed as she.

"Circe, the boss goes by Circe, staying offshore on one of the islands in the Hauraki Gulf. Sent me in to get rid of you two." Lamar smiled, a chilling sight amidst the blood and seared skin of the rest of his face, and continued 'looking' in Layla's direction. Sherlock's mouth opened, he paused and drew in a hesitant breath.

"You." He turned towards Layla and furrowed his brow in concentration.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, it's you, Layla. You said it before, you saw the pattern already. A giant man in a cave— although I doubt they could have planned the blinding accident—but you said it. This crime has been tailored to taunt you, adorned with references that you would understand!" Sherlock spun on the spot and tossed his phone to Layla. "Call for an ambulance, Lamar has played his part! Oh, this is interesting!" He skipped towards the entrance of the warehouse with a smile, leaving Layla to gape dumbly after him.

She caught up with him outside after she had called for medical assistance.

"What did you mean? That the _Odyssey_ allusions I saw were real, and intended for me to see?" She wiped the blood on her hands off onto her pant leg and struggled to keep pace with Sherlock.

"Precisely. It seems our attacker knows of you, or knows you personally." Sherlock took back his phone and began typing on it wildly. "Walk more quickly, we have a ferry to catch."

* * *

"You've been quiet for a while." Layla knew exactly how long Sherlock had been silent. Twenty two minutes, she had been counting. There was nothing else to do on that 'ferry.' In reality, it was a fisherman's skiff hired out to transport people to the uninhabited islands off the coast.

Sherlock was leaning on the railing and staring off at the smooth bay. He hardly moved but Layla knew that he had heard her, he had blinked for the first time in two minutes.

"I assume that you know more about this than you're letting on, as always. Seeing as it is somehow involved directly with me, I'd really like to be an eency bit more informed than usual." She laid a hand on his arm. "Sherlock, please. What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Thinking." He brought his hands to his chin and ran his tongue over his lips. Deep in thought it seemed. Layla let her hand drop from his arm and sunk down to sit on the deck. They had been on the water for over half an hour and she was beginning to feel sea sick, despite the placid waters.

"Well, whenever you feel like letting me in on what's going on, I'll be down here trying not to vomit." Layla cradled her head in her hands and tried to focus on the solidness of the boat. _Everything is stable and fine, I'm on a sea worthy vessel. A tiny, wrecked, wretchedly unstable bit of wood floating in a stretch of water that is just bound to be replete with sharks! _She gagged and shifted away from the edge to settle her back against the cabin's wall. There, at least, she was against something solid in two directions.

"But who could know you?" Sherlock's deep voice rang out several minutes later, Layla had lost count trying to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged.

"UGH." She tried to answer but just ended up tasting bile.

"Who? You're not important, you're not famous or politically prevalent. Hell, you're not even well known in your own field. Who would know you?" Sherlock tossed his hands through his hair.

"Trying not to be offended down here." Layla gagged again but caught herself before she hurled properly.

"Oh, stop. You know what I mean. You aren't an easy target for such knowledge, with Mycroft's work you're practically invisible. So who is it?" Sherlock whipped around and kneeled in front of Layla. "Who did you tell that you were coming here?" Sherlock lifted her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes in alternation. She was positively green with nausea but Sherlock's face was calming, solid and even looked slightly concerned. _Probably for how much of a liability I am_, Layla thought to herself as she noticed the anxiety in his eyes, _or just not knowing what is going on, he hates being clueless._

"I didn't tell anyone, no one except John and then Molly, clearly, once I got on the plane." She sighed as Sherlock released her face and resumed his position on the railing.

"Are we walking straight into a trap, Sherlock?" Layla wiped the beading sweat off her brow and caught Sherlock glancing back over his shoulder at her.

"I believe we are." He turned back towards the sea and his templed fingers.

"Of course we are." Her forehead fell with a dull thump onto her knees. "If I'm this uncomfortable knowing that you don't know, it must be eating you alive."

"The problem isn't that I don't know, it's that I might know." Layla lifted her head weakly and watched Sherlock struggle internally. He had some kind of idea but he didn't want that to be the answer. As much was clear from his body language; he was tense, fidgety and curled in on himself. Not the relaxed and confident man he could be when he was sure of his assumptions.

"That bad is it?" Layla didn't really want to know, she had a terrible sinking suspicion that it was someone she knew and trusted, and she really didn't want that to be true.

"If it's who I think it is, yes. Then we're absolutely walking into a trap."

* * *

When the two of them stepped off onto solid land, it was not what they expected. For one, it was the fourth island they had stopped at in the Hauraki Gulf since they had tried all the usual tourist spots first. Whoever it was staying here, they weren't there at a resort house. On the other hand, the island was enormous and jungle filled. They would have to search for hours to find the spot, if 'Circe' was even here. The fisherman had sailed the perimeter of the island and none of them had seen any signs of life on the shore, but as the little old man had pointed out, there was plenty of space in the trees to live.

"I don't even care if Circe isn't here. I'm just glad to be on nice, dry, steady land." Layla wobbled precariously on the sandy beach as Sherlock stepped out of the row boat behind her.

"Indeed." He swept past her and towards the trees and vines encroaching upon the dunes.

"What are these, mangroves?" Layla stepped over a high tree root and dropped with a splash into some stagnant water. "Yes, gotta be mangroves… Or some kind of marshy, brackish water adaptable tree." She tugged her shoe out of the mud and splashed after Sherlock.

"I believe so, yes." Sherlock stepped from one exposed root to another, still dry and completely clothed, unlike Layla. She clambered up onto the nearest root, one shoe in hand, the other claimed by the mud, her legs and arms now completely soaked.

"I lost my shoe. This had better be the place, Sherlock. I know I said earlier that I didn't care, but I do. Then again, I thought that this would be _dry_ land, not half land half water." Layla leapt pitifully onto the nearest root and ended up falling onto her stomach over the smooth wood.

"This is it." Sherlock stepped over Layla and helped her to her feet.

"How? How could you possibly be so sure about it?" Layla stood with Sherlock's assistance and leaned against the tree trunk to catch her breath. "What? What are you pointing to?" Layla followed Sherlock's direction and gaze. "A rope bridge?"

"Indeed, a rope bridge through the trees. If only I could climb to it…" He tested the width of the tree trunk and attempted shimmying up it but failed. "No, we can't reach it from here, there must be platforms elsewhere near the shore that we just missed." He slid smoothly down the tree and settled next to Layla.

"Great, so we have to continue trudging through this mire until we find some tree house that we also can't reach?"

"Perhaps. I have a feeling, however, that we won't be unsuccessful." Sherlock moved on beneath the bridge with Layla attempting to stay dry behind him until they reached the edge of the grove. There the bridge ended with a ladder down the last tree and before a rocky hill.

"Great, now mountain climbing." Layla took a deep breath and stepped up to the hill.

"Don't exaggerate." Sherlock quickly loped up the hill and waved for Layla to follow.

"Oh." Layla reached the top of the hill and gasped, she was looking down into a valley, a rich, lush valley complete with a waterfall and lovely flowering trees. And there, in the center, was a beautiful house on stilts. "Yeah, I think we found it."

It didn't take long for them to reach the house, there were an assortment of trails leading in that direction, all well cleared and easy to travel by. The house itself was unguarded and also easily accessed, as though it wasn't some crime lord's hide out but a proper luxury home.

"Welcome to my paradise, Mr. Holmes. And guest." Sherlock and Layla froze as they mounted the last of the porch's steps. Apparently they had been expected.

"IRENE?" Layla gawked at the woman's grinning welcome and waited for Sherlock's response, she had never seen them interact.

"As I expected." He muttered under his breath. "Ms. Adler, a pleasant surprise." Irene's smile crept wider as she leaned against the porch's rail.

"We both know that this wasn't a surprise, Mr. Holmes." Layla cringed at how she purred Sherlock's name.

"Um, yeah, a bit of a surprise over here!" Layla flung her hands out in front of her in shock. Neither Sherlock nor Irene broke their stare to pay her any mind. They were circling each other, even though neither was moving, sizing one another up.

"It doesn't concern you, love." Irene stepped away from the railing and towards the patio furniture nearby. "Please, have a seat though." She waved to the wooden chairs and sat down. Her guests didn't take her up on the offer.

"Oh, I'm sorry, but was not the whole _Odyssey_'s best hits especially for me?" Layla set her hands on her hips and glanced back and forth from Irene to Sherlock. They were still eyeing one another.

"You noticed my theme, then, lovely." Irene turned her sultry gaze onto Layla. "That was for me, you know, to see what you would notice."

"She spotted it straightaway." Sherlock piped up and strode forward, he did not, however sit as directed. "You've made a mistake, showing your hand like that. Trying to show off?"

"Maybe, we'll see. I do like to play games and Layla is _so easy_ to play."

"Yes." Sherlock stopped in front of the chairs and folded his hands behind his back.

"Wait, so you were just doing that to fuck with me?" Layla staggered forward but still stayed a good distance from Irene.

"Just a bit of fun."

Layla ripped her gaze away from the mischievous Cheshire smile of Irene's to assess Sherlock's reaction. He was still unreadable, so she turned back to Irene. At least her face wore some expression, even if it was malicious, conniving and frightening. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Not glad to see a familiar face?" Irene pulled a theatrical pout and then cut her eyes towards Sherlock. Not earning any tangible response from him she settled back into her chair and focused on Layla.

"No, not so much, I guess you're choosing not to remember how much I hated you in America." Layla shook an angry finger at Irene and inched closer to Sherlock, she wanted to be nearer to him than Irene, feeling possessive and suspicious as she was. Sherlock finally broke his stare from Irene to follow Layla's gradual approach. He uncharacteristically said nothing as she stopped mere centimeters away from him, Layla knew better than to touch him. Whatever amusement or disgust he was registering at her possessive action he chose to hide, and hid it well.

"That's just too bad, I came because I heard that the two of you were going to be here and I thought, why not come along as well, it's been awhile since I've been to New Zealand and I have some connections." She glanced away from Layla and graced Sherlock with her most cloying smile.

"How did she know we were coming here?" Layla stepped away from both Irene and Sherlock, rage building in the pit of her stomach. She knew the answer already but she needed Sherlock to affirm it.

"I told her, clearly." Sherlock redirected his attention back to Irene and purposefully ignored the jealous fit Layla was getting ready to throw.

"Anyway," Irene interrupted the unspoken dialogue within Layla and Sherlock's sustained silences, "I got here and then one of my _old_ friends ran into me and… well the money was too good to turn down."

Layla stopped glaring at Sherlock and threw her hands in the air. "So she's Circe, she's been orchestrating all this bull shit! Irene!"

"Clearly." Sherlock turned away from the two women and began pacing the deck.

"But I thought you two were f—friends isn't the word but… in touch, acquaintances, on good terms at least." Layla craned her neck to keep sight of Sherlock as he padded out of their sights.

"I did save her life…" He turned back, having completed his survey of the porch and fixed his eyes back on Irene, "but then again, I had thrown her to Mycroft and his wolves several months before. Our rapport has been complicated at best, so this isn't so surprising."

"If I may," Irene looked up from ostensibly cleaning her nails and locked eyes with Sherlock, much to Layla's continued dismay," I have been doing the hiring and the planning, yes." She glanced over at Layla quickly, "but that doesn't mean I've been doing a good job." She nodded towards the woman who had just set out a tray of food and drinks and then turned completely away from Layla towards Sherlock. "Seb is paying me for _effort_, not for execution. For all he knows, I've been doing the best I can and everyone else is just incompetent."

"Wait, who's Seb?"

"The very question I was going to ask." Sherlock broke into a smug little grin. "Although I fear we won't hear any more about this Sebastian, will we?"

"Sorry, no." Irene held out the tray of nibbles. "Tart?"

Layla stepped forward, "Yeah, I'm starv—"

"No." Sherlock cut his eyes at Layla. "We don't accept food or drink from someone hired to devise our deaths."

"Too bad too." Irene set the platter back down on the table and crossed her legs with a sigh. "It was just a mild sedative to knock you out cold. Then, who knows what I might have done. To either of you." She left her invasive gaze on Layla when Sherlock didn't meet her eye. "I thought you would have figured that out though, Ms. McManis." She lifted an eyebrow condescendingly.

"Ah, the Circe reference. Very cute." Layla stalked away to hide her embarrassment at missing the allusion. "And it's Dr. McManis, thank you."

"I know." Layla glowered from her new perch on the stairs back at Irene.

"Now what, Sherlock? We know who is trying to get us, what's the next part of the plan." Angry, exhausted and patronized, Layla let her head fall into her hands.

"We leave. As you said, we discovered what we came for. She's not in any position to do anything now, so we return to the beach and take the ferry to the mainland." He stepped away from Irene and towards the stairs where Layla sat.

"Yes, of course, you know that I won't stop sending killers after you. Like I said before, the money's too good." She toasted the glass she just received from her waiting woman. "And… now that you know, you have a much higher chance of surviving it. I guess I could stop with the themed hits, although I think I'll keep the name Circe. It has a nice ring to it." She continued with raised voice as Sherlock stepped down the stairs.

Layla, however, tarried on the step she had been sitting on. "You know, it fits you perfectly."

"The name? Do explain." Irene crossed her arms and simpered.

"It means hawk, and you're as predatory and conniving as any bird of prey." Layla spun around on the ball of her foot and stomped down the stairs to emphasize her point.

"Oh, I might as well tell you," Sherlock and Layla paused on the ascending path up the valley to look back at Irene. "You won't do yourselves any good by heading back to the shore. Your little skiff has gone." She sauntered over to the stairs and then motioned back to her house. "But you can stay here, if you'd like. I don't bite. Usually."

Layla turned towards Sherlock to discuss their options but found that he was already striding back towards the house.

"Psst! Sherlock, is this a good idea?" Layla jogged up to him and grabbed hold of his shoulder.

"It most assuredly is a terrible idea." He turned his blue eyes on her and frowned. "But, as of now, it is the only option we have, unless you want to spend your night in the grove with all the native species—"

"No. No. Definitely not that." Layla released him and trudged unhappily back to Irene's abode, the last thing she wanted was to have to spend a night in this woman's nest—web—lair, whatever it was metaphorically, Irene's house was not a safe place to lay your head to rest.

* * *

"This is such an unbelievably terrible situation." Layla sat down cautiously on the guest bed they had been shown to and peered around the rest of the room. It was sumptuously decorated, like the rest of Irene's house had been, fully adorned with ivory fixtures and rich toned wallpapers. The bed itself was expansive and spread with silk sheets and a delicate scarlet duvet.

"This woman likes red." Layla reached towards the deep crimson curtains and took the crushed velvet in her hands. "I swear, every time I've seen her, which hasn't been many times but still, she has a red something; dress, shoes, lips. She just screams blood and danger."

"Careful, Layla. That savors of spite." Irene stood elegantly in the door way holding a set of plush towels. "I thought you might want to freshen up." She set the linens on a nearby table and grinned. "The shower has a steam function, I'd try it if I were you." Her mouth quirked with a naughty smile at Layla. "Have a… nice evening." She left Layla and Sherlock to their own devices with the soft click of the door.

"Did you hear her come into the room?" Layla gathered the towels and deposited them in the bathroom in a flutter.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me that she was there? I could've done with not sounding like such a jealous—"

"You could have, but you are, so what was the point?" Sherlock was sitting with his feet up underneath him and his elbows on his knees in one of the ridiculously plush chairs.

"Bghh! What's the point with _you_? I swear!" She started stripping her filthy clothes off and stomped into the bathroom. "I'll be in the shower, in case you want to, oh I don't know, apologize for being an ass! More likely you'll just come insult me." She grumbled all the way to the glass and tile shower and stepped inside with a heavy sigh.

"You'll have to return to England." Sherlock's baritone rang throughout the bathroom and caused Layla to nearly jump out of her skin. She wrung out her hair and stuck her head out of the stall.

"What? I thought it was unsafe for me to be there!"

"It was, but now that we know there is professional bevy of assassins after us here, it is no longer a viable alternative. I've already alerted Mycroft. You will be on the evening flight out of Auckland tomorrow." Layla watched as Sherlock peeled off his clothes and prepared to shower as well.

"Leave? Without you?" She stepped out of the shower still dripping to give Sherlock his space. He seemed to be pushing her away again, getting her out of his hair. Layla was fairly certain Irene factored into this somehow, maybe he'd decided that he preferred the mysterious criminal over Layla, the dull classicist in a boring government job.

"For your safety, yes. Why are you just standing there? You'll spoil that rug." He stepped around Layla and into the shower but left the door open. She was supposed to follow.

"You—you want me to shower with you? You never let me shower with you, the last time was so that you could wash my hair when I was all broken and pitiful and even then—"

"Was I unclear? Shut the door behind you, the warmth is escaping." Sherlock opened a peevish eye beneath the stream of water tumbling over his head and waited for Layla to comply.

"Sorry, well, no. I'm not sorry. You're confusing. Usually the shower is your space, no namby pamby in the shower." Layla pulled the glass door to and leaned against the back wall. Even if he was willing to allow her inside the shower with him, Sherlock was not going to share the spray of water with her.

"Yes. Usually, but this is no usual situation." He ran his hands through his soaked curls and shook the excess water from his hair.

"Whad'ya mean?" Layla pulled her eyes away from the shining spread of wet, naked Sherlock and tried to un-cloud her mind.

"We are in the house of a crafty crime queen the night before I send you away indefinitely." Sherlock turned the dial on the steam function and performed his own visual inspection of Layla.

"Yeah, still not making the connection."

"I fully plan on utilizing our agreement one last time." He took a step towards Layla and looked down at her with all seriousness.

"I can see that. But why the shower, I thought you'd prefer elsewhere." Layla squinted through the building steam and resisted the urge to touch him, any of him, all of him.

"I would, but there are cameras." Sherlock smiled as Layla gasped and thrashed around to cover herself. "I'd hate to give her the pleasure."

"You couldn't have told me that sooner?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Certainly, but just because I didn't want her to enjoy this," he spoke in a full, ringing voice as he ran his finger along her folds, unexpectedly, "yes, just that—" Layla gasped again, this time with arousal, "—although I didn't want her to see this, that in no way means I don't enjoy taunting her, when I can."

"Can she hear us?"

"Oh, I believe so." Sherlock's voice was bold, deep and velvety. This was a game for him.

"Then let's make the most of that." Layla was all for irritating Irene, especially if it entailed getting something that the other woman couldn't. "Are you sure don't want her to see?" She too was missing the visual stimulation of seeing Sherlock because of the steam.

"That would be too much." His hand suddenly alighted on Layla's breast followed swiftly by his lovely lips. They withdrew as Layla fought to stifle her mewls, "no, no. Don't quiet yourself. In fact, I fully expect you to be as loud as possible." His voice was somewhere closer to her pubic region and, by the time Layla registered this and what he had said, he had elicited an uncontrolled moan. The sudden and unforeseen pressure of his teeth on Layla's sensitive inner thigh was more invigoratingly stimulating than such an act had been in plain sight.

Surprising lick after startling nip, Sherlock drove Layla into screams of bliss. She made a point not to hold back at all and was louder than she'd ever been with him. When he finally entered her, once again to her surprise, she viscerally moaned his name. The unknown thrill that had preceded waned as the familiar rhythm of their rutting pressed Layla into the shower stall's glass fronting. Despite that, Layla didn't glean any less enjoyment from it and indeed as the mist of the steam dissipated she reveled in the sight of Sherlock's flushed features along with his especially deep and echoing expressions of delight. He too added to the auditory evidence of their love-making with growls and groans. As her over stimulated senses whitened into the blank bliss of orgasm, she was pretty sure he even gasped her name.

Layla came back to reality when she realized the smacking sound that was ringing through the bathroom was strangely out of place. Sherlock was still, well not thrusting into her, and besides breathing heavily doing nothing besides supporting her weight against the glass. It was clapping. Someone was clapping.

"Bravo. Encore." Layla felt her heart dive into her gut and winced as it sank lower with Sherlock's self-contented grin. Irene was there, had been there for sometime presumably. "I must say, with both doors unlocked a girl might be led to believe she was expected, welcomed even."

"Enjoy the show?" Sherlock's voice was just as haughty as his smirk. Layla, however, did not join him in his complacency; a myriad of emotions were streaking through her recovering brain. Rage, jealousy, embarrassment, you name it, she felt it, except maybe satisfaction; that feeling had skittered off quickly.

"Immensely, although not as much as she did. Who would have thought she could make so much noise?" Layla swallowed hard and shut her eyes. Although she was in no position, literally, to respond physically, she could feel her muscles tensing to lash out. "What? After all that, no witty retort? Did you wear yourself out screaming his name?" Sherlock's smile grew wider; he did enjoy hearing his own name.

"No, she's controlling her urge to throttle you. Not very successfully, however." Sherlock peeled his hands off of her backside and slowly lowered Layla onto the shower stall's floor.

"Who said I wasn't going to throttle you?" She rasped back up at Sherlock and pushed away from him.

"Well played Mr. Holmes." Irene's eye followed Layla closely as she stormed, naked and blushing, out of the bathroom and then returned her gaze to Sherlock. "I'm properly envious."

"Don't lie, Ms. Adler. You'd have it differently." Sherlock, unabashed by his own nudity, approached Irene and stopped so close that she was forced to crane her neck back to look him in the eye.

"Perhaps." Her hands settled ever so lightly upon his chest, nails first. "Would you like to see?"

"That," he stepped smoothly around her, "would be losing."

Irene walked purposefully towards the door and smirked over her shoulder as she left, "Thanks for the show, I'll be sure to tune in for the sequel." With one final glance towards the wall facing the bed, she slipped from the room.

"That was demeaning." Layla shifted away from Sherlock as he sat down on the bed beside her. "Please tell me you forgot to lock the doors and all that was an unfortunate accident."

"Hardly," Sherlock held out his hand, concealing a smart phone, one that was neither hers nor his own.

"You pick-pocketed her? Is that how those" she pointed to the red crescents from Irene's nails on Sherlock's chest, "got there?"

"Mmmm." He gazed intently at the phone, tilting it every which way to catch the light.

"Great, you have her phone. How are you going to get into it? Surely it's got a lock."

"Yes. Hence the steam."

"The steam?"

"Indeed."

"I thought the steam was for hiding."

"Not everything is single-purposed, Layla."

"Explain."

Sherlock turned quickly towards her and set the phone in front of her nose. "She the screen? Fogged but marked with patterns. This phone is unlocked by a drawn pattern. The steam makes the oil left from drawing it visible." He clicked on the phone and traced out a complicated symbol. "Voila." His face was lit up by the home screen of Irene's smart phone.

"What are you going to do?"

"Find out who Sebastian is."


	14. Helter Skelter

By the time Layla arrived at the airport, she was angry and more than a little worried. Sherlock had shoved her into a cab immediately upon reaching dry land and had sent her basically empty handed to the airport. After they had managed to call the ferryman that morning, Sherlock had spent the entire waiting period as well as their voyage to the mainland in utter silence. The stream of questions pouring from Layla's mouth did nothing, not even so much as to elicit an angry bark of 'silence.' He had just stared fixedly for hours. Presumably he had been pondering this Sebastian person. With the newly acquired phone number Sherlock suddenly had a lead to the potential big man of the operation, as it were. Even when the cab had pulled up and Layla had haplessly stumbled inside he did not say a single word. No goodbyes for Layla, and no luggage.

"Ma'am, do you have any luggage to check?" Layla snapped up and blinked at the desk attendant.

"No, no luggage. I just have a ticket to claim." She quickly laid her ID on the desk and went back to worrying about Sherlock.

"Right, passport?" She stopped thinking about the various and horrifying ways he could be in danger at that very second and fished out her passport.

"Very well ma'am. Your flight departs in just over an hour, please proceed to the security check." Layla retrieved her freshly printed ticket and other paperwork and then floated, dream-like towards the line of fliers waiting to be scanned, groped and generally made uncomfortable.

She passed through security without a hitch, she had practically nothing on her and she had made a point to throw away the empty bottle of plant spray. _Poor Fluffy._ She thought back to the probably terrified and possibly starving rabbit locked up in the mountain cabin hundreds of miles away. She hoped that Sherlock would remember the unhappy creature. To be certain she sent him a text, just one word: _Fluffy._

With every hope that he hadn't disregarded her laconic reminder Layla turned her phone off and boarded her flight. At her stopover in the Pacific islands she had checked her phone incessantly for any sign of his response, and had finally caved and sent a second text, their warning sign _**_ in hopes that he would ask her what had happened. Either he anticipated her subterfuge or he was in trouble, Layla prayed, something she hadn't done in years, that it was the former. She didn't hear back from him, not even when she landed the next day back in London.

Layla finally staggered travel weary and emotionally frazzled into the Heathrow terminal only to find a mildly familiar face holding a sign with her name on it.

"Yes, I'm Dr. McManis." Layla stopped hesitantly in front of the exquisitely well-dressed woman with the sign.

"Good, follow me." Layla trudged reluctantly behind who she realized was Mycroft's personal assistant and grumbled as they approached the usual black sedan.

"Anthea, right?" Layla narrowed her eyes at the woman. She didn't even look up from her phone to nod. "Thanks a lot."

"Sure." Anthea opened the back door and held it wide for Layla to step into. Muttering a string of choice profanities Layla ducked inside and nearly fell over herself in the process.

"I know you're jetlagged and irritated with my little brother but you have more politesse than this at your disposal Layla." Mycroft was sat demurely on the far end of the town car looking positively drained.

"Sorry, I didn't think you'd be here in person." Layla fell back against the seat and smoothed her three day old clothes down over her. She was instantly acutely aware of how long she's been in them, how fetid she must smell, and how repulsive she must look.

"I understand I suppose. Being sent off with little warning and then enduring two days of travel without news of Sherlock must be infuriating. Don't worry, your clothing will arrive within the next few days, Sherlock shipped it this morning." Mycroft's eye lingered on the fairly obvious semen stain on her pants from where she had rushed to get dressed after the shower sex. Layla pulled her bag closer, both to conceal the stain and to do something with her hands. "He also bade me to tell you that the rabbit will return with him."

"Thanks." Layla turned away from the elder Holmes' invasive stare and looked out the window. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with Mycroft belittling her. That was when she noticed they had passed the turn off for Baker St.

"Um, where are we going?" She spun back around on the leather seat and found Mycroft yawning. Ignoring the strangeness of the sight she asked again, "where are we going if not home?"

"Unfortunately, my brother still thinks that I owe him for selling his life story." He pressed the pads of his fingers to his brow and then looked back at Layla wearily.

"That's… not an answer to my question."

"Not for that particular question, no; but it is for the one imminently to follow. We're going to my house."

"My god, why?" Layla recoiled from Mycroft and then stuttered nervously, "oh, oh okay, I see. So how is this doing Sherlock a favor?"

"By keeping you safe. For reasons still unexplained and unclear to me he is attached to you." He took a sip from a glass of golden liquid, Layla guessed brandy, and shook his head ever so slightly. As put off by this arrangement as Layla was, it seemed Mycroft was infinitely more tired by it. _It's probably more dealing with Sherlock than dealing with me_, Layla almost felt bad for Mycroft and all he had to put up with. Despite this she proceeded to act deeply offended.

"Yes, fine. I seem unappealing to you, I do love the Holmes boys' insults. You always somehow work it back in relation to yourselves!" Layla watched for the classic haughty reaction, but Mycroft simply took another measured sip from his drink. "Moving on, I still don't get why staying with you has been… requested, if that's the right word."

A tiny smirk pulled at Mycroft's set frown and he turned, a fraction more composed, towards Layla. "Because 221 is no safer than when you left several months ago,"

"Yeah, but—"

"And Mrs. Hudson has basically evicted you."

"Why?" Layla's voice was a good octave higher.

"221C was raided yet again while you were away, you've become too much of a liability, even for Mrs. Hudson. She simply can't afford you living there anymore. The rental notice just went out this week, in fact." He poured a second glass of the amber draught and handed it to Layla.

"So… I'm homeless."

"You were homeless." Mycroft's lips were pressed tight, this situation did not suit him but he didn't seem irate, more resigned and bitter. Nevertheless, here he was offering Layla a drink as though in commiseration. _We're both fed up with Sherlock. That's what's happening right now._

"Oh my god, this isn't temporary, is it?" Layla accepted the glass and wilted against the leather.

"I'm afraid not."

Layla snuck another glance at Mycroft and ventured an alternative, "can't I, oh I don't know, live with John or Molly or—"

"Anyone but me?" He smiled knowingly and shook his head. "Don't you think, if I could have convinced Sherlock otherwise, I would have?" He drained his glass and leaned forward onto his pressed palms thoughtfully. It seemed the two brothers had more than their piercing intelligence in common.

"Good point, so…" Layla trailed off in an attempt to find something consoling to say. Much like the beginning of that year with Sherlock, Layla found resigned and un-bombastic Mycroft disconcerting.

"Please Layla, we need not labor through small talk." His voice was gentle despite his curt words. Mycroft was truly worn down, like he didn't have enough left in him to be entirely unpleasant to her.

"Okay…" Layla chewed on her lip and left him to brood in silence for as long as she could stand. Finally the difference in his demeanor was too much to just let lie. "I'm guessing your upset about taking me in, but the real burr in you bonnet is Sherlock. Why do you let him guilt you into things like this, presumably without sufficient explanation?"

"Why do you?" Mycroft leaned back again and pulled a hand over his face like he was trying to rub the concern off of it. "I, despite what he might let on, do care deeply for him, as a brother ought. We just— have a bitter past."

"So you're not the insufferable ass I assumed to you be, not entirely." Layla said it playfully, trying to initiate a string of stinging banter that usually characterized her interactions with Mycroft. He knitted brow in a quiet expression and replied softly instead,

"It seems not."

When Layla, once again, couldn't withstand the sustained silence anymore she piped up with an easy, un-Sherlock related question. "Do I still have a job?"

"No."

"Lovely, so… getting the cryptography job all—"

"Was just to keep you where he would know you were safe, yes. You're really a terrible cryptographer."

Layla sighed at the failure to perk her now ex-boss up. "Gee, thanks." She squirmed around for a few seconds as she realized that she had no money, no possessions, no job; no way to remunerate Mycroft for what he was about to provide her with, a house. "So… I'll just have to—"

"It's fine. You'll be maintained." He waved off her uncomfortable attempt to thank him for his beneficence.

"Maintained? I'll be maintained?" This situation was quickly turning unpleasant, now she was a kept woman?

"Indeed. I have the funds, although I doubt you'll be concerned about that aspect. You'll also have your independence." He turned woodenly to gauge her reaction.

"I'm a grown woman, not a house cat, Mycroft Holmes." Her temper was rising. Once again she was sub-human in Mycroft's eye, _first a pawn and now a pet, I'm going to kill him_. Her sympathy for his blatant exhaustion was now spent.

"Yes." His patience was waning as well, the sharp, sardonic tone returning to his voice.

"I want to have a life, not some strange domestic imprisonment."

"You'll be free to leave, with an escort, whenever you please. Sherlock has only requested that you remain unemployed."

"Any idea why?" Layla crossed her arms impetuously and stared with belligerent intent at Mycroft.

"Several." He didn't glance away from the now drained brandy glass.

"Care to share?"

"Not if I have any idea about your reactions, which I'm afraid I do."

Layla detected the change of tone in his voice, withering to exhaustion once again, and her rising temper deflated in kind. In its place fell a nearly over-powering urge to interrogate Mycroft while he seemed less prickly. Fortunately, for both involved, the rest of the car ride was short. Layla only had time to sneak in one more question for this strangely sentimental Holmes.

"Are you worried about him?"

Mycroft turned from contemplating the shape of his brandy glass to look Layla in the eye. From this angle, Layla noticed, the same look that would have made her feel small and idiotic simply betrayed the accurateness of her question. Eyebrow lifted and lips pursed, Mycroft nodded very slightly. "Terribly."

"He's in danger."

The car slowed to a stop and Mycroft recovered to his normal, composed posture. He drew in a quick breath and put on a force smile, "Ah, it seems we've arrived. Anthea will show you to your rooms."

He slid from the back seat and held the door for Layla. "Goodnight Ms. McManis."

Layla opened her mouth to correct his salutation but decided against it; Mycroft wasn't mocking, he was drawing her attention. "If you need anything, feel free to use the intercom."

His brow was dark and knitted and after giving her one, solemn nod he strode slowly towards the large, facing staircase. Layla tried to follow, to discover the meaning of that nod, an exact meaning. She was fairly certain that he was answering her question, or affirming her assumption, about Sherlock but she wanted to know for sure. Anthea, however, stopped her.

"Sorry. Your rooms are this way." She tapped Layla's elbow and pointed over her own shoulder.

"I thought I was staying at his house." Layla looked back at Mycroft's departing figure and the enormous set of stairs he was ascending to the entrance of his villa-like house.

"You are. It is just more convenient for you to enter by the guest door."

"The guest door?" Layla scampered after Anthea.

"That's right, just this way. Here is your key." She placed a set of keys in Layla's palm and turned around the outcropping porch of the home, towards an equally exquisite, if a good deal smaller, entrance way. "You've got access to the entire place from here as well as direct route to your area without marching through the entire house. This key will open all exterior doors," she held up the more ornate key and then selected a second, smaller one, "and this one will open your quarters."

Layla followed Anthea inside the entryway with a gasp. "When he said 'rooms' he meant rooms." She was standing in a foyer opening to a long corridor and adorned with two facing doors.

"That's right. This one is yours." Anthea pointed to the door on the right. "The other is another apartment, I would say that you'd prefer it but it was furnished for his mother, so…" Anthea smiled ironically and headed down the long corridor.

"So… that's it?" Layla shouted after her.

"Yep."

"Great. Now what?" Layla turned to her door and unlocked it slowly. She had an idea about what to expect, stuffy furnishings and overpriced fabrics, but she was wrong. She opened the door to an impeccably modern apartment. And it was a true apartment, sitting room, bedroom suite, kitchenette and all. The strangest part was that it seemed vaguely familiar. She wandered around the nicely lit sitting room and tried to put her finger on what was tugging on the strings of her memory. The couch was nondescript, a basic leather and metal construction in black. The few pieces of utility furniture matched similarly featuring steels and glass, the decoration was Spartan and geometric, nothing that screamed recognizable, that was until Layla tripped.

"Fucking damnit!" She stooped over and tugged the projection out from underneath the matching arm chair. "Oh." She settled back into said arm chair and blinked at the piece of collapsible aluminum in her hands. It was a music stand. "Of course, the other was for 'Mummy,' why wouldn't dutiful Mycroft have one for his wayward younger brother?" Layla jumped up from the chair and scoured the rest of the apartment for other traces of its intended resident. She found a number of chemistry whatsits and odds and ends, a microscope in the linen closet that was easily ten years outdated and, most disturbingly, a set of hypodermic needles.

"I will file that under 'ask a number of invasive questions about later.'" She closed that drawer beside the large bed and sat down heavily. She had somewhere to be, to live and sleep and eat, but she had nothing to do, or really anything to do it with. All of her possessions were still in New Zealand, the only things she had at her disposal were what had come with her in her bag. The list these things constituted was small and sad: cell phone, wallet, bobby pins, a pen with notepad, another notepad for whatever reason, some spare change and something she hadn't put in there, a flash drive.

"I wonder…" She plucked the tiny capsule-like item from the bottom corner of her purse and looked it over. Unmarked, no label of any kind, just smooth, black plastic. "Must be Sherlock's." There was no way for Layla to explore and be certain, her computer was also still in New Zealand, but there was little reason to doubt her assumption. The real question was what was on it and why had he left it on her person.

* * *

Sometime the next day, after Layla had showered, dug out an old set of cotton pants and t-shirt from the wardrobe, and grown tired of staring at mindless television, she decided to explore the rest of the sizeable residence, at least the more 'public' parts. She wouldn't open any shut doors. Not all of them, at least. Barefoot and without makeup she locked up her little living space and tiptoed down the long corridor she had watched Anthea disappear down. It was predictably ornate, baroque frames with dusky pastoral scenes within lined the walls, rich toned wallpaper loomed behind these and the ceiling lacquer and swirling inlays matched the glossy tiling of the floor. Layla felt underdressed just being in the corridor, nonetheless she crept her way down it until it opened to the entryway. A multi-floored room with interior balcony and showy staircase, it seemed more like a grand ballroom's entrance than a private home.

"Christ on toast." She flitted around the edges of the room, peeking into the two rooms that opened up off that lower floor. There was an office or small library as well as a room that, if Layla hadn't been perfectly aware that she wasn't in a Jane Austen novel, she would have called a drawing room. It had couches and dainty tables and a room off the back of it, probably another guest room. She ducked back out of this space and peeked around the stairs, another hallway and from the smell of it, one that led to some sort of kitchen. Layla began to wonder if Mycroft was some kind of landed aristocrat who just chose to work in the government because he liked meddling, he certainly seemed like he lived like a duke. Here it was, the middle of the day and his kitchen was cooking while he was away.

She found, when she decided to further investigate the source of the smell, that the kitchen was indeed down that hall but it wasn't the estate kitchen she was expecting. Just a lovely cook space with one elderly lady bustling around it. She also discovered that that little old woman was charmingly kind and a good conversant with whom Layla spent a nice portion of the afternoon chatting, and eating. Layla learned that Sherlock had indeed lived there but years before. The little cook, Helene was her name, couldn't remember the exact year, but she was sure it had been before her granddaughter had gotten married and that had been six years prior.

Layla left her sojourn in the kitchen and skittered up the stairs, feeling jumpy and anxious in case she should be caught where she shouldn't be, even though Mycroft hadn't distinguished any off limit areas. She passed by a couple of open rooms, each ornately furnished, and a shut door, presumably a bedroom. Finally she found what she was looking for, the living room with hearth place and all. The chairs were arranged around this fireplace and were easily the most used pieces in the room so Layla took her seat there and waited. She wanted to ask Mycroft about the flash drive and she assumed the only place she would be able to corner him would be there.

Skirting around the enormous oaken dining table flanked by what Layla viewed as comically large chess pieces, she sat in one of the leather arms chairs, curled up and waited. She'd only made it through a quarter of the emails she had amassed while out of town when the sigh behind her drew her attention away from her phone.

"I apportioned an entire set of rooms to you but lo and behold I find you here. What may I help you with, Dr. McManis?" Mycroft set his briefcase aside and approached the seating area resignedly.

"This." Layla pulled out the flash drive and dropped it in his hand. "I found it in my purse, it isn't mine and I didn't put it there. I assume that it's Sherlock's and I wanted to know if you have any idea what it is."

Mycroft looked at the drive in his hand, assumed a patronizingly bored expression and then surveyed the state of his guest.

"Already feeling claustrophobic, are we?" He fiddled around at the wet bar and returned to the sitting area with two glasses and no flash drive in hand.

"Well, yes. But what about the flash drive?" She reluctantly accepted the glass and tried to spot the drive on him but it was clean gone, hidden away in one of his many pockets. Stealthily too.

"It's none of your concern. Now, what else may I provide? A computer for the time being? I can have Anthea secure one for you—"

"Nope, just here to find out what that is. So, out with it, Mycroft. What is it?" Layla stood from her chair and crossed her arms.

"The flash drive is simply Sherlock's and my way of maintaining a stream of communication, like I said, none of your concern."

"So he sent me back so that I could convey whatever information you've been trading?" Layla took a gulp of whatever it was, straight liquor that nearly gagged her.

"You misunderstand me. Your trip back was just a convenient means of getting this here." He tapped his breast pocket and saved the crystal glass from Layla as she started choking.

"That—that is strong." She smacked her tongue a few times and cleared her throat. "Urgh, so he really did send me back to keep me safe."

"True. It's endearing." Layla cut her eyes at Mycroft in surprise. "Your reaction." He lifted his brow at her astonishment. "You really must learn not to invest so much in him—" Mycroft cut short his lecture to investigate the source of the music emanating from Layla's bosom. She had tucked her phone in her bra since the pair of sweats she was wearing was without pockets.

"Sorry." Layla retrieved the phone and frowned at the screen.

"Oh, please, don't let me keep you." Mycroft rolled his eyes and crossed his legs at the ankle, waving for Layla to answer the call.

"Yeah, hello?" Layla moved over to the window for better reception, and so Mycroft couldn't read her face.

"Hi, Layla. Sorry, my phone is dead, this is Mary's." John's voice rang out on the other end and Layla smiled.

"Ah, yes, hello John. How goes it?"

"Fine, just fine. I'm calling because, well, I heard that you had moved out of Baker St., we didn't see you around but Mrs. Hudson said you ended your lease. I hope everything's alright."

"Mrs. Hudson said I ended my lease?" Layla turned around to glare at Mycroft, he smiled with narrowed eyes at her scowl. "Yeah, it seems I couldn't afford to live there anymore."

"Oh, well, that's too bad. Did you just come back to move out, or—"

"No, I'll still be around." Layla shifted uncomfortably before the window, she should have expected Mycroft to lie but she wasn't sure if should lie to John or not. She decided against lying, there were enough lies floating around for now. "Actually, I'm back now." She heard Mycroft tutting behind her but blew it off.

"Oh, brilliant. I could actually use your help. Would you like to get coffee sometime—" Layla cut him off again, she wanted social time, good normalized social hour.

"How about today? Now even?"

"Yes, good, that's fine. Works for me, Mary won't be back until late tonight anyway."

"Super, I'll meet you at Baker St." Layla leapt away from the window so that she could get dressed somewhat less absurdly and caught Mycroft's eye in the process. He looked amused. _Shit, my escort? At Baker St.? Not a good idea._ "Actually, on second thought, no. Sorry I can't come over there—um…" Layla trailed off in thought.

"No, I'll just come to you, I've been looking for an excuse to stop cleaning this place up." She could hear John's movements in the background, could visualize the routine he was going through; grabbing keys and coat, shutting 221 B and jogging down the steps. "Where are you staying now?"

Layla hesitated as she looked to Mycroft for assistance. He offered none beside a smirk. He clearly knew what was going on, Layla would have to go out in public with an entourage or explain to John why on God's green earth she would be staying at Mycroft's.

"Layla? Are you still on the line?"

"Oh—uh yeah. Here, still here."

"So, where can I meet you?"

"Mycroft's." She shut her eyes tight as she waited for John's response. It was a while before she got it.

"Why?" He sounded concerned.

"For my safety, apparently." There was a sigh on the other end of the line, _probably of relief_. "He, uh, feels responsible, as he should," another glare at Mycroft revealed just how entertaining he was finding this conversation, "for the situation I'm in so he's housing me for the time being."

John's voice at the other end also revealed a hint of amusement. "Right. I'm sure you'll have plenty to explain when I get there."

"Loads. Too bad he'll be here." It was her turn to sneer.

"He's there now isn't he?" John was clearly swallowing a giggle.

"Yep."

"Great," he snorted, "I'll see you in a quarter hour."

"There'll be a car there for him in five." Layla snapped her head up to question Mycroft. He waved off her adamant head shaking.

"Oh, no. Sorry John. A car will be waiting for you soon. I tried to wave him off, but Mycroft has his reasons." Layla marched past the self-contented elder Holmes and hustled back to her rooms to spruce up.

"Such a power complex." John grumbled on the other end of the line and then hung up.

While Layla was changing the intercom crackled to life in her sitting room. She yanked Sherlock's old tee back over her head and ran to the front room looking for the source of the voice.

"Layla. I'm talking on the intercom." Mycroft sounded tinny but real enough to send Layla into a panic. "The button on the bottom corner." He also sounded irritated.

"Okay, hi. What is it?" She held down the button and looked around the room for cameras.

"Mrs. Bertrand will have tea for you and Dr. Watson in my sitting room, if you want it."

"Yeah, thanks that's fab. Better than trying to explain my lack of possessions in here. Do you have cameras here or something?"

"No, Layla, not in personal rooms. I have morals. Let Mrs. Bertrand know if you need anything else." The line fell silent.

_Not in personal rooms. Does that mean he has them elsewhere? Of course he does. He loves snooping._ Layla sprinted back to the wardrobe and grabbed her jeans from the day before, they were filthy but better than explaining why she was wearing men's sweatpants. She tucked Sherlock's t shirt into those jeans, sprayed on some perfume (another mysterious find in the bathroom) to cover the smell of her jeans and hurried back upstairs.

John was already seated in front of the fireplace by the time Layla got there.

"Oh lord, Layla, you're so tanned." John pulled her into a hug, she reciprocated, awkwardly, and plopped down on the other chair.

"That's New Zealand for you, tons of lovely sunshine. So what's going on?" She smiled warmly at Helene as she bustled in with the tea tray.

"Ta." John nodded to the cook and pulled out his computer. "Well, I've finally gotten around to writing up the case of Richard Brook and well—" John cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.

"Got it John, last blog entry." Layla laid her hand on John's arm and nodded in encouragement.

"Yeah, well, I've also included a bit about Sherlock personally. Some stuff explaining how he couldn't have been a fake, you know, to—oh I don't know, mend his reputation. Anyway, I would appreciate you giving it a read through, for grammar checks. If I'm going to publish a defense of my best friend's life it should be as perfect as possible." He held out the laptop with a sigh.

"Yeah, sure, I would be honored to, John. Honored." Layla squinted at the screen in front of her and tried to read just for grammar, not for content. The emotions that would well up from such a read were not ones she wanted to deal with. Too bad for her.

"This part's nice, I had no idea you socked the chief superintendent." Layla smiled through her tears up at John. He nodded quietly and but didn't smile.

A few minutes later Layla set down the computer and wiped her eyes. She hadn't seen any mistakes but she sure had seen John's heart, and it had broken hers.

"That's just lovely John. I'm so glad you're going to publish it. Just…" she drew a shuddering sign and sipped from her now cold tea, "perfect."

"Good. Ta." John retrieved the laptop with a nod and then stashed it away. "Now, on to happier business. What are you doing here, Layla? With Mycroft of all people."

"Staying not dead. The situation with the crime bosses got pretty bad, I wasn't even safe in New Zealand, so here I am under constant surveillance. It's almost like I'm the criminal."

"Ah, I see. I thought you'd grown to hate us here. Though, God knows who'd prefer Mycroft." John glanced around the room. "I bet he's got cameras in here, that's right Mycroft, we seriously doubt anyone would want to live with you if they had a choice." He sat back in his chair with a huff. "That man irritates me."

"I know." Layla smiled weakly. "Actually, funny thing, yesterday he and I almost got along. I think he was just too tired to be mean to me, but yeah, he was nice." John frowned skeptically but allowed Layla to continue. "So, here I am, living with Queen Mycroft, and I got to tell you, it's been one day and I'm bored out of my frickin mind." She sat back with an exasperated heave of her shoulders.

"Then why are you even here? No, that's a bad question, sorry. What are you doing while you're here? What do you want from being here?" The concern still hadn't left John's face.

"I think not dying pretty much sums it up. America has nothing left for me anymore, I learned that at my sister's wedding, plus Darren's there and so that—"

"No, Layla, I meant what are you going to do with yourself now? You still working? Dating?" He leaned towards her and knitted his brow even tighter.

"Oh, um, well no work for now. Turns out I'm a terrible cryptographer, just a liability really. I may try to get back to my scholastic writing, maybe. I don't know John. If I were being honest with myself, I'd tell you that I'd like to do what you're doing. Settling down, starting a family, it just doesn't seem likely right now. After Sher—after him, finding someone has just been— it's been difficult. Nearly impossible. Not that I could have had that with him, well he did try, and then the baby, I lost him and yeah. Anyway, I'd like to try it again. Do it right. I like London, I know I want to live here. It's just down to figuring the rest of it out." Layla stared at the giant stone horsemen instead of looking at John's sympathetic face.

"You'll figure it out Layla. You were put together when we met you." He swallowed a grin and nodded seriously.

"Thanks, John." Layla tittered in spite of herself. "Actually, when I'm allowed to get a job again I might talk to an old professor of mine now at King's, maybe I can get a lectureship there, eventually."

"That's a good plan, a good start. In the meantime, you can help me out, eh? Stamford's been great with the stag party planning and whatnot, but I need some help with other stuff, stuff Mary keeps nagging about—no not nagging." He grinned sheepishly. "She's been reminding me about loads of things, flower choices and colors and nonsense things like cake flavors." He broke off into exhausted chuckles while Layla giggled along.

"Oh, I can help John, anytime. I'd love to, to be honest, give me something to do and I'll do it."

"Great, what can you tell me about butter cream?"

"Butter cream? You mean like icing? Well it's rich and—what?" Mycroft had stridden in and was clearly not enjoying their conversation, his lip was curled high enough to graze his nose.

"I'm sorry to interrupt so _tender_ a moment between friends, but you have a call Layla." Layla shrugged at John and followed Mycroft out of sheer curiosity.

"Who is it?" She asked once they were out of earshot for John. Mycroft looked down at her coldly and tweaked an eyebrow. "Really?" Layla's eyes grew wide. _Sherlock? _Mycroft led her to a smaller room, the one that had been shut earlier that day and handed her a land line.

"H—hello?" Layla felt nervous, actually nervous. _Silly girl._

"Stop talking to him about weddings, it'll only encourage him."

"You what? How could you?" She whipped around to inspect Mycroft, he was blank faced and uninterested.

"Shut up and listen. I've just heard that Darren Kellen is back there, back in London. Listen to my brother, as bitter a pill as that is to swallow, don't go out unless necessary and for God's sake stop encouraging John to marry that woman."

"Fine talking to you too. Any other demands you'd like to make?"

"Find my violin."

"Your violin? Seriously, you want me to go back to my basement of doom? I thought you just told me to not go out."

"This is necessary. And it's not in your flat, it's in 221B, I replaced it before I left."

"Fine." Layla sighed as she assented. Peeking around to see how much attention Mycroft was paying Layla cupped her hand around the mouth of the telephone and half muttered, "when will I see you again?"

"Hand me back to Mycroft." He sounded venomous.

"Goodbye to you too." She shoved the phone back into Mycroft's chest and stormed out. "Honestly, freaking impossible man." Stomping into the sitting area she grabbed her phone and gestured to the door. "Come on John, let's go do wedding shit."

John opened and shut his mouth a few times before he stood up and nodded. "Everything alright?"

"Absolutely incandescent."

"Something happen, with the call?"

"Yeah, an asshole." She caught sight of John's crunchy brow. "Darren Kellen's back."

"Oh," he pursed his lips and marched after her, "going to try and kill you, or…?"

"Yeah, or flirt with me until I kill myself."


	15. Living Loving Maid

One engagement, one wedding, one baby and one divorce later, Layla had spent over a year and a half with Mycroft and was feeling especially unaccomplished. That's ignoring the fact that she had been intimately involved with all of the above, participating in some, fighting against others and had managed to publish two legitimate articles in that time. Alex and Henry had gotten engaged, something Layla wanted to fight against with all her living breath but eventually fully endorsed. John and Mary had had a lovely wedding, gone on honeymoon and after months of failing to conceive adopted a beautiful baby boy; Layla was completely supportive of both of these things, against Sherlock's behests. Layla's baby sister, Teresa, got a divorce in that time as well; Layla should have fought against it to save her sister money and heartbreak, but she ended up supporting it without regrets.

Meanwhile, Layla was turning thirty and had secured nothing that she wanted by that time, she was getting antsy. It didn't help that she'd only spoken with Sherlock a number of times she could count one hand and not seen him since New Zealand. On a more positive note, John had completely quit commemorating Sherlock's death on a bi-annual basis. Now, just over six months from the third anniversary of his death, he had only been to the grave site in the past year once, on the anniversary proper, with a wedding photo and a smile telling his best friend what had been accomplished that year. One of the calls Layla had received had been about this very occasion, Sherlock was not happy that she had allowed such a sentimental and vain display to occur under her watch. She had told him to fuck off.

On this particular day, Layla was trying to convince Mycroft to allow her back to Baker St. without an escort. With their new child and fresh, shiny life Mary and John had finally decided to abandon 221 and all its idiosyncrasies. And it's shadows and ghosts; Sherlock, still alive in reality, haunted that back room with a tenacity that even parental joy and marital bliss couldn't outshine. Layla had often been on the receiving end of Mary's more than concerned diatribes on 'the look.' Apparently every once in a while this flittering gloom of pain would darken John's face after he'd gone to the fridge or stuck something unneeded in Sherlock's old room. As a result, the Watsons had requested their friends to come over, have some wine and help them pack up and move out. Chester, the baby, was with a nanny so this was meant to be an adult evening, possibly one of the lasts, and Layla was not going to miss it or pollute it with frowning government muscle.

"Come on, Mycroft. It's been almost two years and I've seen neither hide nor hair of Kellen. I think it's safe for me to go back on my own." Layla sat down on the magnificent wooden table, in front of Mycroft's paperwork, thus impeding his reading.

"It's like having a child." He sighed and kneaded his temples with his fingertips.

"Yeah, except I'm not a child, I'm a thirty year old woman who's been stuck living like a naughty teenager for eighteen months. Now, all you have to do is call off the breathing shadows and I'll be on my merry way and out of yours."

"Sherlock's requests were not solely about your safety—"

"Yeah, yeah but guess who's not here and hasn't been for the entire time. You, you Mycroft are the one who has to deal with me and—what's that? Is that a gray hair I see? Am I causing you to gray?" She leaned towards him to pluck an imaginary hair.

"Fine." Mycroft evaded her preening and rolled his eyes; Layla had finally dragged him to the end of his rope. "You may go. But please, keep your head about you. I cannot even imagine how I would deal with Sherlock should something happen to you. He's hellish enough already."

"Lovely, thank you dear." Layla laid a cheeky kiss on his forehead just to incense him further and skipped out of the room.

"I'm going to kill my brother for forcing that viper on me." Anthea dutifully supplied the strung out Holmes with a double brandy; his alcohol intake had increased in direct correlation with the extent of Layla's stay.

* * *

"Hello Watsons! I come bearing an 88 red from Mycroft's cellar and a welcome mat for your new home!" Layla had made it un-accosted and early, for once, to 221 without dropping either of the presents she brought.

"Layla! Hello. You're early, wow. Must be a special day." John took both items from her with a warm smile, leaving the welcome mat on an already growing pile of 'taking with us' crap and going to the kitchen with the wine.

"I'm so pleased you could make it, oh and such a lovely gift." Mary kissed Layla on the cheek and handed her a glass of wine from the bottle the two of them were already working on.

"I'm glad you like it, but what I'm _really_ excited about is that bottle I nicked from Mycroft. He'll be livid but I have a feeling it'll be worth it." She gladly accepted the glass and sauntered over to sitting area. Books and knick-knacks, coasters and picture frames were all lying there in neat little piles.

"We're missing just one, and then the real fun can start." John joined Mary and Layla beside the chairs and they all looked down at the stuff.

"Oh really? Who else is coming?"

"Molly, dear." Mary patted Layla on the arm and then dashed to the back room. "And while I'm thinking about it, we found this when we were cleaning out the back room." Mary came back out of Sherlock's room holding the maid outfit she had worn while crippled and helping him on a case. "John said it was yours. Must've left it when you moved back downstairs." Mary popped out the black tulle skirt and handed it over to Layla with a smile. Layla barely managed to reciprocate.

"Th—thanks Mary. Yeah, that's an old joke, I guess. Wow, I'd completely forgotten about this thing." She ran her hands over the stitching, stitching Sherlock had done and then looked up at John while trying to blink away tears. "Did ya tell her the story John? Otherwise I seem a little raunchy." She laughed off the swarm of emotions only well enough to convince Mary. John met her eye and gave her a small smile.

"Yeah, a bit. Just enough so that she knew that you broke some rapist's nose."

"Speaking of, good for you Layla. I never cease to be impressed with the breadth of your abilities." Mary was once again busy, gathering similar items and sorting other stuff into the enormous trash bags lying about.

"That's only because you've only gotten to know me in condensed intervals. Trust me, in a longer doses I'm as painfully mundane as a sandwich at noon. Just ask Mycroft. I'm driving him batty."

"Knock, knock!" Molly's quiet voice called out from behind them.

"Molly! Welcome to the madness!" John took Molly's coat and her additional bottle of wine before shooing her over to the other women.

"Hi, Mary, Layla. Been awhile." Layla grinned cordially back at Molly. 'Awhile' was an understatement, _how about two years, since New Zealand?_ Neither Molly nor Layla had found any reason to come in contact and bear the tediously painful awkwardness that any subsequent meeting would entail. And yet, here they both were.

"Hi. A long while I'd say." They shared a look, a 'we both know something John doesn't know but should know' look and then started squirming uncomfortably, almost in unison. Fortunately, John returned with Molly's drink then.

"Alright, we've got two and half bottles of wine now. Here Molly. And a shitload of rubbish to deal with. Mary and I packed up the back room ages ago, donated some stuff to some colleges but the rest we were hoping you would take to Mycroft, Layla. Do you mind?" She jerked up from making a close inventory of her shoes and thereby avoiding any further contact with Molly.

"Yeah, I mean, no. That's fine, not a big deal." She nodded over-vigorously and then grabbed the nearest piece of household nonsense to occupy her hands. "So Watsons, what's the game plan? What goes where? You better lay down the rules before we get too sloshed for it to make any difference." She tossed the tiny globe at John and took a generous sip of wine.

"At this point, we just want everything that isn't going in the rubbish bins put in a box. If it can fit in a box, otherwise, well we'll figure that out."

"Yes, please, don't worry about organizing, we tried that and it just created frustration, so boxed and labeled by room, if applicable, and then we'll take care of sorting everything out in the house! I can't believe I'm going to be in a house." Mary clapped her hands excitedly and nearly knocked John's wine out of his hands.

"Slow down there, love. Do we already need to cut you off?" He caught the glass and his wife and rolled his eyes comically at Layla and Molly.

"That is exciting, Mary. I'm so glad for you. Where is it?" Molly finally spoke up again.

"Not far from here, and it's not a proper house. Don't let Mary's enthusiasm delude your expectations. It's a townhouse five streets over, but lovely and big enough for our family." John nodded smartly and popped out a cardboard box.

"So how will this go? Got any tape or what have you?" Layla took another box and folded the edges.

"Yes, the _tape_ is by your elbow on the desk. Two on each seam and don't overload the boxes, we have plenty."

"Yeah, make fun of my Americanisms hahaha! Remember when I had my hair full of this stuff?" Layla tossed the packaging tape to Mary and then winked at John. The wine was loosening her up already, no more overly maudlin recollections of good adventures gone by. They shared a knowing laugh and explained the story to Mary and Molly.

"And finally he just ended up taping the damn things to the top of my hair. I found the shit at random times for the entire next week!"

"You guys should have seen her face, it was bleeding priceless." The four of them threw back another uproarious laugh accompanied by greedy drinking.

"I think it's time open Mycroft's donation to our evening!" Layla leapt up and scampered to the kitchen. "Where's the bottle opener? And don't tell me we've already packed it because I will open this thing with my teeth and you guys don't wanna see that!" She waved the four hundred dollar bottle of wine recklessly at them, it was the last bottle of the evening and the other two had done a pretty good job with her inhibitions, especially since they'd only been at it for a little under two hours.

"I can't believe you infiltrated a cult!" Molly had loosened up significantly and had enjoyed Layla and John's joint tale of their first few weeks as neighbors. In fact, so had Mary; it helped that they had tactfully avoided their short tryst.

"Oh lord, neither could I at the time or afterwards. It was absurd!" Layla wrenched the cork from the bottle with the retrieved cork screw and set to pouring the drinks. "To 221, what memories this place has created." They all joined her toast and a few of them, Mary in particular, sloshed the terribly expensive wine over the front of themselves. She was pretty far gone, a lightweight, Layla had joked earlier in the evening but it was true.

"So, Layla, you really must tell us because, let's be honest, we've all been wondering," she nudged Molly sloppily, who in turn began giggling uncontrollably. "What was it like being with him?" Layla's eyes widened in horror as she looked to John. "Sorry to be indelicate but it's been three years basically, and no one else can tell us. What was Sherlock like?" Layla released the breath she had been holding in a hysterical giggle before nearly drowning in the merlot she had just poured.

"And I think I'll pack the bathroom." John edged away from the three women and then practically ran upstairs.

"I think you broke John." Molly leaned forward conspiratorially and pointed after the flustered doctor.

"Yeah, blokes don't like hearing about other blokes, but come on tell us Layla. How _big _was he?" Mary held her hands out in example 'lengths' and smiled maniacally. When Layla just shook her head, Mary's eyes bugged out and she spread her hands further apart.

"No, no," Layla waved down her size demonstration and laughed, "there's no way I'm revealing that last secret. Just suffice it to say it was big enough." She winked and the other women burst out laughing.

"That's just your way of saying that it wasn't, though!" Molly was long gone as well, otherwise such a conversation would have been upsetting for her.

"No, that is not what I'm saying. Trust me. It was big _enough_." She met their eyes for a serious second and then they let loose an 'oooh' in unison.

"That good, huh?"

"Yes. Just, yes. I had to teach him some stuff, well everything since he was a virgin—"

"What!"

"Yeah, like a total virgin. It was insane. But once I showed him how everything should go, he excelled at every step. Fast learner he was."

"Woowee! Did he have you know, kinks or anything?" Mary was getting really into this and Layla subtly removed the wine glass from her reach.

"Well, no, not real kinks but he was pretty voracious at the beginning."

"Really? Like what? Every night?"

"Yeah, sometimes multiple times each night. The first night we were together, well really the first few days were a blur of genitals and sweat, but I'm pretty sure that first night we had sex three times and he fucked me so hard I had bruises everywhere."

"OKAY!" John started shouting from the top of the stairs and plodded down heavily. "I'm coming back down now." The girls tittered at his obvious discomfort and passed the wine bottle around again, Mary had reclaimed her glass easily.

"Don't worry John we just finished talking about girly things." Layla filled his glass as well and set the now empty bottle down. "Damn we killed that thing fast. That's some tasty, tasty wine though."

"I don't—hnk—I don't regret it one bit." Now Molly was hiccupping.

"Christ, ladies, I think we're done here." John taped up the last box and sat down next to Mary. "I guess—Mary!" John removed the hand that was snaking up his thigh and blushed a perfect crimson in front of Layla and Molly. The two observers cackled wildly and did nothing to discourage Mary's advances.

"That's what we're talking about!" Layla was aware somewhere in the back of her heavily inebriated head that 'that' was not really what they were 'talking about' but she shouted it anyway.

"Alright, er, I'm going to call some cabs for Molly and Layla and you Mary, why don't you just sit tight." He sprung away from his wife and bolted for the phone.

"Oh, I'll sit tight." She didn't look like she had understood a thing he had said.

"Well Molly, I think we better get out of these two's hair, yeah?" Layla chugged the last of her wine with Molly following accordingly, moves both would severely regret later, and staggered towards the door.

"Right, cabs're out front!" John leaned heavily on the back of his arm chair and waved at Molly and Layla as they tottered down the steps.

"Goodnight, love birds!" Molly nearly shrieked with joy as she followed Layla down the steps.

"Yeah, have a _good_ night!" Layla added her two cents and tumbled out the front door with the two boxes of Sherlock's things she had brought to the front foyer earlier.

Several minutes later Layla barreled through the front door of Mycroft's home, singing a song she didn't really know at the top of her lungs. She had long ago foregone the visitor's entrance, preferring the ease of access to the kitchen that the main entrance afforded as well as the bonus ability to harass Mycroft almost without trying. This night she was in top form for the latter.

"MRS. BERTRAND! Fetch me a chicken, I crave the flesh of fowl!" Layla burst into the kitchen, cardboard boxes perched precariously on her wobbling arms, only to find it darkened and empty. The clock on the oven read out 1:44. "THE KITCHEN IS CLOSED? AW MAN!" Layla stomped out and stopped in the grand entryway. "MYCROFT! MYCROFT! MYCRO—"

"I'm here, Layla! What?" Mycroft, as summoned, appeared over the banister of the upper story clad in his ridiculously stately dressing gown and matching slippers.

"You dress like a BOSS!" Layla dropped the boxes and pointed at his nightwear. 'Did you know there's no food in the kitchen? It was dark and everything!" Mycroft shook his head and made his way down the stairs.

"What do you have now, besides an astronomical blood toxicity level?" He stooped over and opened the first box. "Blast! First I'm his nanny, caring for this child of a woman, and now I have to store his bric-a-brac?" He snapped shut the box and set it and its partner in the library.

"Ha! Bric-a-brac, what a funny set of words, like whosits and whatsits…" She suddenly fell serious, as though thinking hard about something. "I'VE GOT WHOSITS AND WHATSITS GALORE, THINGAMABOBS? I'VE GOT TWENTY!" And with that she traipsed down her corridor belting out the Disney movie's lyrics.

"PART OF YOUR WOOOOOOOOOOOOOORLD!" Layla threw open her apartment door and flipped on the light, tossing her keys on the nearest flat surface, the floor, and bumbling over to the kitchen.

"Oh, hey Fluffy. No time, no fluff. No, that's not right, _long_ time, no fluff! Wait a second!" She dropped the bag of crackers she was fumbling with and slowly turned to look at the naked rabbit sitting quietly in his hutch in the corner. "How did you get here, little one?"

"You are legendarily intoxicated." Layla's head lolled to the side she heard the distinctive baritone rumbling from. Her sadly over-indulged eyes struggled to focus on the silhouette she knew so well as it approached.

"You look the right way." Layla staggered forward towards Sherlock with outstretched hands. "Your hair is so Sherlock-y." She tried to reach his hair, he just caught her wrists and her falling weight as a result.

"I gave Mycroft one instruction about maintaining you, but I come back and first you're gone, without a guard as it seemed, and now I learned that you've imbibed enough to make you incomprehensible. You used to show more sense." He chided deaf ears as Layla stared doe-eyed up at his face.

"Sherlock! You haven't been eating!" She freed one hand to poke his chest. "Look how skinny you went and got!" She pouted at his decrease muscle tone and overall weight and tried to lift up his shirt. "Lemme see!" She shouted at him when he gently pushed away her hand.

"Not now. You've been feeding my brother enough for us both." He eased her onto the sofa and stalked off out of her sight.

"Where'd you go?" She crawled around on the couch to spot him rummaging in the kitchen. "Wait, did you just call Mycroft fat? You're such a mean person, Sherlock. It's as simple as him liking to eat and me liking to request tasty dishes from Helene. Oh my god, so tonight, while John was hiding, we talked about your penis." She burst into raucous cackles when Sherlock whipped around, genuine surprise etched on his face.

"Mary, was all, so what was Sherlock like, Layla. Tell us tell us. And then I was all like, he's big enough, trust me. And then Molly freaked out and I told them about all the bruises you gave me that first night because you were a first—no, fast learner." She sunk down into the couch still laughing at her story as Sherlock returned with a selection of things.

"You look so serious. Why such a poopy grumper face?" The sour expression on Sherlock's face deepened and he shoved a mug in front of her nose.

"Here, drink this. I was hoping to have a serious conversation with you this evening. And take these, you'll need them." He dropped a couple of aspirin in her palm and held the mug closer to her mouth.

"Coffee? But it's night time."

"Just. Drink it."

"Alright, then you, me, sex." Layla nodded and took a winning gulp from the mug of coffee.

After a few minutes of unsuccessful and idiotic groping, Layla slumped away from Sherlock and pointed angrily at him. "You said sex. I've waited years, lidderly, and now no touching? Bullshit."

"I never agreed to anything. Now finish your coffee, and eat those crackers. I can't believe he let you go out on this night, of all nights."He shook his head and batted away another attempt to fondle his groin.

"Have you been sleeping with other peoples?" Sherlock turned back to Layla, her eyes were clearing a little bit but her mind was nowhere near where it needed to be for the conversation he wanted to have with her.

"No, why?" He crinkled his nose at the thought and sipped his own coffee.

"Because all this time and no sex has been driving me all over the crazy highway but now you're here and you're not even interested in me."

"That has nothing to do with it, you smell absolutely ghastly and are soaked through with wine, having sex with you right now would be immoral. Moreover, I have more important things to cover." He heard the ripping of cloth and looked back to find Layla literally ripping her blouse from off her head. Ignoring the intoxicated blush of her breasts and neck, Sherlock disentangled her from the sleeves and struggled to keep her hands away from her bra clasp while also putting the shirt back on her.

"Boom. Boobs. Say no to that." Layla tossed her bra onto the floor triumphantly and thrust her chest forward. Sherlock swallowed hard, her milky fair breasts were absolutely in view, now with pert nipples and the playful bounce from Layla's thrusting them forward.

"Finish your coffee." Sherlock kept his eyes trained away from her and cleared his throat.

"I saw it! Your nose twitched, big, bad Sherlock missed me and my boobies!" She launched forward and straddled Sherlock's lap more easily than a woman with almost an entire bottle of wine in her should have.

"Ah, come on, a quickie on the couch. Let's go." She grabbed one of his hands and placed it on her breast, the chill of his skin making her nipple even more erect than before. "Now, let's see that penis I was talking about!" She attacked his belt buckle with a child-like excitement and actually unlatched it before Sherlock recollected himself, removed his hand from her breast and came to the rescue of his belt.

"Layla, dismount me this instant!" He practically shouted it and she obeyed immediately.

"Sorry." She dropped sulking onto the couch next to him. "If not for that, why are you here?" Layla made no effort to cover herself but seemed to wax slightly more sober.

"I told you once before, I have a serious issue to discuss with Layla, not this idiotic, drunken mess." Sherlock removed his suit jacket and draped it over Layla's naked torso. "I have to go speak with my moronic brother, for now you stay put there, we'll talk when I return." He snatched up her keys and phone and slammed the front door behind him.

When Sherlock returned Layla was asleep, crackers crumbled all down her front and Sherlock's suit jacket. He rescued his jacket and shook it out glaring down at Layla. "Wake up. Layla, here, look at me."

"Oh lord, Sherlock, I feel a right mess." She sat forward and gathered her bra, making herself slightly more presentable and feeling absolutely foolish.

"That would be because you are." He sat down next to her again and handed her the partially mangled blouse. "I've never seen you so intoxicated."

"That's because I haven't been that drunk since undergrad." She slipped the shirt back on and cradled her foggy head in her hands. "That was an incredibly bad decision, no spring chicken am I."

"Indeed. Are you feeling well enough to have an actual conversation," Layla glanced up at him with bloodshot eyes and winced, "will you at least remember this tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I think, yeah. I don't have a job, because of _someone_, so I can sleep this monster hangover off. While we're on that subject, why can't I work, I mean seriously?" Her mouth tasted like the cardboard boxes she had been packing a few hours before and Sherlock's piercing stare hurt her head like a bright light.

"I have a reason. If—if you agree to what I propose and if it is successful you won't want to have a job for some months." Layla frowned as Sherlock's incredibly weighty words drifted through her still impeded mind.

"Uh… what? Wait, do I want to know? Are you going to put me in some really nasty situation?" She raised her eyes to relocate Sherlock. He had risen from the couch and was now pacing the room.

"No, nothing quite like that. I have some things to take care of, soon, and when I address them they may be extenuatingly dangerous, perhaps even fatal. I want to be prepared for such an outcome in advance."

"You want to prepare for your death? Again?" She reached for her coffee cup and swallowed the last, cold dregs.

"Yes, but this time, I would like to achieve something slightly more specific before I possibly go to my death. I have more time, more foreknowledge and can take every precaution available."

The quietness of Sherlock's voice helped to clear Layla's mind. She focused on him more easily and requested an explanation. "Okay, what do you want me to do? What can I do?"

"I would like to have an heir, a child, and I want it by you." He sat across from her in the arm chair and locked her with those crystal blue eyes. Layla's stomach knotted and her breath caught. _Good lord, I must still be drunk._ "And yes, I'm real and I'm being honest." He leaned closer to her with a softened expression.

"Woah, woah, woah. Sherlock, we've already been down this road. We know how it goes and you don't have to trick me into staying here, I want to live here."

"I know. That isn't what I want. I was being serious before, I want my genetic material to pass on, I want someone for the world to remember me by."

"So this is you being a narcissist? Do you think I'm going to fall for that line when I didn't last time?" Layla shook her head and wiped away the tears that were pooling in her eyes against her will.

"I know you want this, Layla. I know you told John that you want a family. I am merely facilitating both of our goals. You, the _rewards_ of motherhood and I, biological survival even if I should die with this plan. Moreover, if I shouldn't, I will be returning to life here, to you and John and Baker St.—"

"You know he moved out." Layla was half-laughing in disbelief. She had never allowed herself to imagine that Sherlock's original half-baked plan to impregnate her would flourish into this, into him offering to father a child by her because he wanted it and wanted to be a part of its life. "And what about if you do live and the child happens? Then what? Will you stick around, or toss me away like a used flesh oven?"

"That is a wretched simile, and no, I will not toss you away. I wish to observe the development of my superior genetic material, if at all possible. And John will return. I can't see him staying away for long." Sherlock had stood again and was riffling through her drafts and manuscripts.

Layla teetered over to the kitchenette and poured another cup of coffee. "So, translation, you want to create your own test subject."

"More or less. I hope you emended that." He set down a page of her latest article and instead picked up her sketch book. "I will not, however, experiment on the child."

Layla snatched the book full of charcoals of Sherlock out of his grasp and sat back down on the couch. Sherlock grinned crookedly and dismissed her violence. "Damn right you won't. So what will be the point of it? No tests on the baby leaves very little to observe."

"Wrong." He was tapping away on her phone now, "There is plenty to observe in comparison to other, ordinary children. The problem with that top sketch, the unfinished one, is the foreshortening of my nose."

She glared at him acidly and shoved the pad underneath the couch cushions. "What are you going to do? Sit in on its kindergarten class?"

"No, John and Mary have a child now." He tossed away her phone and picked up one of the trinkets from the Watson wedding, a centerpiece component they had given to their closest friends, a tiny glass lion. "John, so quaint."

Layla sighed and shook her head. "Oh, this is a competition." She lifted a judging eyebrow at Sherlock.

"No, I simply see the opport—"

"No, no." Layla shook her head again, this time more adamantly. "This is definitely you competing."

"Please, I couldn't care—"

"Yeah, fine. I'll do it. I've wanted a child since, well you know that part already, somehow you heard my conversation with John, oh! Mycroft and his cameras. Yes, of course. But, I'll do it, you just have to promise me some things."

"Mmm. Like what?" Sherlock set down the lion bauble and pressed his palms together. Layla hesitated, shifting until she caught his eye then looked deep into the cerulean pools.

"You won't experiment on it."

Sherlock focused harder on her, "we… already agreed to that."

"Good. Second, you won't abandon me if you, for whatever reason, do not like… the result."

His eyes crinkled, with a flash of knitted brow and a tug on the corners of his mouth, almost in an expression of pain.

"I cannot believe you would—"

"I take that response as agreement." Layla sat back, relieved, "and finally, you won't get killed."

"I can't possibly ensure that."

"Just promise you'll try your hardest, because if you leave me pregnant and alone again, it may kill me." Layla's voice grew quiet and soft but she kept from shrinking under his sustained gaze. It helped that he wasn't inspecting her with scientific scrutiny for once, that he actually betrayed some emotion on his face. The sadness from her former question had cemented into some variation between pity and grief, _has he learned sympathy?_

"Of course, agreed." Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes briefly. Layla mirrored his response, closing her eyes in relief. As she was pondering, fantasizing really, what the next year would entail she heard Sherlock breathe again sharply and move away from her. "Now, take these." She opened her eyes to find his enormous hand before her face with an assortment of colorful capsules.

"What?... Vitamins?" She accepted the pills and let them roll around in her cupped hands.

"Yes, for conceiving. You should be healed by now but I would like to give your hormones a fighting chance nonetheless. Take them daily." He set four plastic bottles on the coffee table and returned to his seat.

"All four of them?"

"Yes. Here." He set a thermometer on top of the bottles as well. "Take your temperature as soon as you wake every morning. Record it and send the results to my phone."

Layla found her lip shivering, the alcohol still in her system, or the exhaustion was making her over-emotional. "You're—you're leaving again?"

"For the time being, yes. I'll return each month for your ovulation. Be sure not to drink alcohol" he caught her eye with a reprimanding glare, "perhaps cut back on your caffeine intake as well." He took the new cup of coffee from her and marched back to the kitchen. "Continue eating as you do, but be sure to avoid that artificial nonsense and exercise, but not too much." He ran his hands down her sides pressing in on her fatty stores. "You need these."

"What about you?" Layla bit her lip as she watched Sherlock gathering his things, sliding into his jacket and straightening his sleeves.

"I will be following a similar protocol, including vitamins and not smoking, so don't get tetchy. When was your last cycle?" He was looking at his phone now.

"Um… check the calendar on the fridge, look for the big, red ex."

"No good." Sherlock strode back from the kitchen and stuck his phone in his pocket. "It's pointless for me to stay now but I'll be back in nine days. Take your temperature and text me anyway. We can still use the data."

"So…" Layla stepped in front of him and blocked his way to the door, for about half a second. He moved her aside and reached for the handle. Her temper rising and disappointment settling in, Layla half screamed at him. "You're going to come back, fuck me for a few days and then leave… every month?"

"Until we succeed, precisely." Sherlock stepped past her and through the now open door.

"And you're going to make it with me here, in your brother's house?" She whispered, almost panicky after him in the hall.

"Oh, yes." She could see the brightness of his smile even in the gloom of the entryway. "I have six months until my final operation, hopefully it will not take as long as that."

"This is cold, calculating and clinical."

"Problem?" Sherlock stepped back into the light of the doorway and inspected Layla's expression.

"I wouldn't expect anything else," she sighed, "except maybe you tricking me into getting pregnant." Sherlock grinned gleefully at Layla's grudging joke.

"Yes, well we've already seen how effective that was."

"I'll follow your instructions; I do, however, expect the' trying to get pregnant' sex to be mind-blowing in quality as well as functional!" She shouted after Sherlock as he disappeared down the corridor.

* * *

The swelteringly judgmental looks Layla had to endure from Mycroft, even as intimidating and demeaning as they were, were nothing in comparison to the building anticipation of Sherlock's return boiling in her stomach. Her emotional response was doubled by the hormonal therapy she was undergoing with the vitamins. It would have been even worse if she hadn't preemptively taken herself off birth control almost a year before. She had rationalized that there was no point in her dropping cash every month for no obvious reason. But as it was, every morning with building intensity a thrumming heat began in her center and stayed there teasing her all day long. Any slamming of a door, or deeper tone on the television would send her squirming with frustrated ecstasy.

The evening of the eighth day was the worst and the night that followed it was fraught with restless and sexually frustrating dreams. Her mind was exhausted and buzzing when the blaring tones of her alarm ended her final fitful dream the next morning.

"This is the worst." Layla stretched her arms and legs and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "This is super déjà vu-y too. And the thermometer, my constant companion. Good morning, good sir." She stuck the thermometer in her mouth and settled back again against her pillows.

_I just have to wait until he gets here, he's coming today and then I will too._ Layla giggled to herself as the thermometer beeped. "Oh ho ho! Two tenths of a degree lower. I think his calculations were correct!" She tossed the little instrument back onto her bed table and threw off her bed clothes.

"Just where are you going?"The surprising voice was accompanied by a Sherlock who sauntered into the bedroom and hung his coat and jacket on the door hook.

"Nowhere, I'm not going anywhere at all." Layla hopped to her feet and skipped over to Sherlock. Her hands were on him faster than she thought she could move.

"That's clearly not true." Sherlock stepped closer to her, closing the space between their bodies, and smiled. Not with his eyes, his eyes looked hungry, but his lips curved into what should be a smile.

"I'm not leaving, not moving out of sight of you. Not now." Her fingers popped open button after button and slid beneath the material onto his skin and his smooth, hard chest just spotted with fair hair. She gulped and pressed herself closer to him, closer to his smell, and his warmth.

"I feel like a brood mare." Layla pressed her lips hungrily onto Sherlock's exposed skin contemplating whether to employ her tongue or teeth next. _Tongue, I bet he tastes incredible, I can practically smell the pheromones coming off him_. Layla followed her instinct, licking across his collarbone and relishing the musky taste.

"Mmmm. Indeed, a stallion is an adequate comparison for me. The vitamins and herbal supplements have had an incredible effect on my sex drive." Sherlock's chest was rising and falling with increasing rapidity as Layla's tongue travelled lower. She had decided that his chest was lovely and fine but she really wanted to run her tongue over his abs, his trail. "Lie down." Layla paused with his command, still inches above his navel, and complied.

Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and followed Layla to the bed. As cold and detached as he tended to be, Layla only felt heat and passion and need radiating from him. "Wow, those supplements must be incredibly effective, you look positively lustful." She slid further back on the mattress and licked her lips, she wanted to taste him again, taste all of him, but she knew he wouldn't allow foreplay. In fact, it wasn't good for conceiving, _something about bacteria_. She suddenly remembered some of the reading she had been doing.

"I hope you haven't been, you know—" she glanced from his hands to his groin.

"I haven't." Sherlock unfastened his trousers and let them drop to the floor.

"—because it'll decrease your sperm count." She sat back up, unable to keep from touching him, his thighs and the groove of his hipbone.

"I _haven't_." He peeled away his underwear and then knelt on the bed.

"Just once would be…" Layla's eyes drank in the sight of him, now entirely naked and obviously, perhaps even painfully aroused. "… it would be detrimental." Sherlock's mouth descended on her, fluttering over her ear, tasting her neck, and erasing her thoughts while his hands hastily removed the cotton tank top she had been sleeping in.

"Ah, perfect." He cupped her breasts and took her nipple in between his lips, tugging until it was stiff and erect. "Your body is responding intoxicatingly to the regimen." The moisture of his tongue lingered on her areola even after his mouth had moved on, tasting the swelling weight of her breast.

"These hormones are fucking great." Layla moaned out only half of her thoughts. She was completely and pleasantly surprised at the intimacy Sherlock was gracing her with because of said hormones, and she really didn't want to spoil it.

"Take off your bottoms." His rumbling voice, low and gruff and chocolaty rich rolled over her other breast. Layla wiggled out of the boy cut panties she had been wearing as pajama bottoms and spread her thighs eagerly.

She felt as though her entire body was alight with energy and every inch Sherlock came in contact with sparked at the touch. His tongue, his lips, even his nose as it nuzzled into her breast and the crook of her neck sent her shivering. Layla's hands responded, she grabbed him, caressed him, mapped his veins and tendons with her fingers. Starting with his arms she inched up his biceps, over his shoulders. Ran her nails down his back, not hard enough to leave marks but certainly not gently, and finally laid hold of his bottom. His response was not what she expected, Sherlock's tongue migrated from her jaw line, traced her lips and delved inside.

"You taste divine." Sherlock growled into her mouth, resisting her attempts to pull him inside of her, and then returned to consuming her mouth. "You're ready. I can taste it, pheromone levels are—" He growled again and shook his head, it was one of the first times Layla had seen him at a loss for words. The little wheedling voice that always ruined her favorite moments reminded Layla that Sherlock would resent her and their combined hormones for causing such speechlessness later. That voice was abruptly put to rest by Sherlock's hand, the hand that was travelling down her stomach, across her hip and along her inner thigh.

"Oh, Sherl—" His hand clapped over her mouth.

"No. Don't do that, I don't know how long I'll last as it is." He panted down onto her face and then removed his hand. "Are you ready?"

Layla nodded enthusiastically while Sherlock positioned himself, the tip of him pressing against her until he slid effortlessly inside. She whined with the sensation, it had been so very, very long since the last time and he was not a small man. The twinges of stretching and pain ebbed to a pleasant feeling of fullness.

"You're so tight." He growled again, the heat and spicy sweetness of his breath dancing over her face. Layla felt flushed, so flushed she was sure that her skin would sear Sherlock where next he touched her.

It was Layla's turn to pant. She fidgeted slightly around him, shifting so that he touched her everywhere, both inside and out.

"Good idea." Sherlock grabbed the other pillow and shoved it beneath her bottom. "Lift your hips." He hastily positioned the pillow and Layla's bottom and practically snarled at the effort to not ram into her while she raised and rotated her hips.

"Sher—" She bit her lip as Sherlock's normally blue eyes snapped up to her, now basically black with arousal. "I don't know if I can—"

"I'll be as gentle as I can. I can't guarantee anything." His jaw set and he lowered his upper body closer to her. When his stomach pressed against hers and the tips of her nipples grazed his chest she bucked involuntarily into him. "That's not helping." Sherlock strangled a moan and settled onto one of his elbows, placing his other hand on the head board for leverage. "Prepare yourself." Layla opened her eyes and took in Sherlock's face, nostrils flaring, lips red and moist and eyes like night.

Without further warning, Sherlock pulled his hips away; not too quickly but he did pull out almost completely. Layla gasped at the absence, the loss of warmth and pressure, but it returned soon enough and with it the delicious pressure against her clit. Against her better judgment she pressed her hips into him reciprocally, allowing him to enter deeper into her. Layla didn't know if it was seconds or minutes but sooner than she expected her body was contorting, swimming, floating with buzzing, soothing, loosening pleasure. Pure, mind numbing bliss obliterated her mind, left her twitching and gasping under the thrust of Sherlock.

Noises separated into distinguishable sounds as Layla's mind rediscovered her body. The tips of her toes unlocked and loosened and the center of her tingled with the aftershocks of orgasm. She felt the trickling of sweat between her breasts and the puffs of air against her forehead. Her eyes and ears were the last to fully recover, her eyes focused on Sherlock's mouth, slightly open and lips curled as he groaned over her.

"Sherlock," Layla breathed with contentment, fully aware of the effect it would have on him. It was immediate, he moaned, loudly, and jerked deep inside of her.

He rocked into her weakly a few final times as she felt his warm seed fill her. "Sublime. Don't move." His voice was deeper and gruffer than even before as he pressed against her. "We have to keep the sperm inside you. Lift your head." He removed the pillow from beneath her head as well and added it to the one beneath her bottom while carefully and slowly sliding out from her.

"Wow. And other words that also mean wow." Layla closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her own hair, the sensation against her scalp was still invigorating.

"I agree. Do not delude yourself that it will be like this each time. This was because of the extended celibacy." Sherlock had collapsed on his face next to her.

"How long do I have to lie like this?" She turned her head to look him over, limp and sweaty and exhausted beside her. She wanted above all else now to crawl into his arms and pass out.

"As long as you can, preferably for at least twenty minutes. It's probably best if you rest anyways. We'll be doing that twice more today and the same for the next three days."

**A/N: Sorry it's so long guys, I got a bit carried away and then couldn't stand to edit any more. Anyway, there'll only be about two more chapters to this one so hold out, it's almost over!**

**Also, I've done a bad, bad thing and succumbed to the allure of Wholock. Expect a new story featuring an AU for Layla's Sherlock experience (tentatively named _Who Plus Two and a Half_) within the coming week. Sorry if you don't like Layla but I find she's the best medium for expanding upon these worlds. **

**Cheers 'til then.**


	16. In My Time of Dying

**A/N: Sorry, **_**so sorry**_** that this has taken me so long to update. Apparently, after writing hundreds of pages for graduate papers it becomes nearly impossible to write recreationally. Hopefully this is worth the wait.**

"You know that moment when you think to yourself, 'Self, what the fuck are we doing with our life?'"

The other end of the line might as well have been dead, so Layla tried again.

"I'm having a bit of a crisis and I could really use some good ole Fairwater advice."

Layla heard Alex sigh heavily, "Is this going to be like the whole I think I'm sexually attracted to a coat thing? Because Henry and I just went cake tasting and I'm feel like I have a sugar hangover." An enormous commotion filled the speaker of Layla's phone and she could hear Henry's voice echoing behind Alex's. "_Is that Layla? Hi, Layla! We found our cake today!_" Alex must've put her hand over the microphone because the rest of Henry's rant was cut off. "Sorry, obviously he's having a different reaction to all the sugar than me. He says hi."

"Yeah, I heard." Layla fought the urge to laugh at her best friend's misery and instead moved on to her own problem. "And don't worry, this is nothing like the coat thing, this is real and kind of serious. Actually, it would be best if Henry _didn't _find out about this, or anyone really."

"Fine, I'll go to another room." Alex's voice grew muffled again as she yelled something Layla couldn't make out. "Okay, what's up?"

"Well, now don't freak out or anything, but I'm kind of pregnant." Layla was really glad her best friend had moved to another room because she did in fact freak out.

"YOU'RE WHAT?"

"I'm pregnant, see there was this moment a couple—"

"No, no, no, no. You can't just not explain that. Who's the father? What on earth were you thinking?"

"I was getting to that part, if you'd just let me continue." Layla waited for Alex to scream at her some more but her friend kept silent so Layla continued. "Anyway, a couple, well actually about six months ago I started trying to conceive with a sperm donor."

"You just up and out of the blue decide to get pregnant?" Alex's voice sounded tired again. "I knew this was one of your crazy things." Layla could practically see Alex shaking her head in disbelief.

"No, not crazy. I've wanted a baby since I lost Sherlock's. Now, just listen, and keep your mind open because it gets a little… stranger." Alex groaned. "Stop grumbling, it's all fine. Well, mostly all fine. Okay, so this is the not so normal part, um—the whole sperm donor part wasn't really through artificial insemination."

"Uh… what other sperm donor type is there—oh lord, Layla. Don't tell me." A hollow smack told Layla that Alex had slammed her hand onto some part of her face.

"Ha, the penis in vagina type? Hear me out! He only came around for my ovulation and then we made it like bunnies for a few days. After that he would leave, you know go back to his life, but he was really good. Like so good that even after I realized I was pregnant I didn't tell him to stop visiting." Layla scrunched her eyes shut as she waited for Alex's response.

"You just let him keep coming over and… doing the deed? What is the matter with you? Did you like fall in love with him? SEE, I KNEW THIS WAS LIKE THE COAT THING EXCEPT NOW THE COAT IS A PENIS! What is wrong with you?"

"Well, so maybe I lied before but I need your help with the next bit."

"You couldn't have called me for advice _before_ you made all these insane, life-altering choices?"

"No, I was sure about those. It's this part I'm unsure about. He's about to be here, well he's coming back today and I can't decide if I should tell him before or after the crazy monkey sex." Layla turned to check the clock. It was six in the morning and Sherlock normally arrived fairly early, so she needed to wrap up this call.

"You _haven't_ told him yet. How far along are you?" Alex sounded perfectly mortified.

"Uh… two months?" She giggled nervously at the admission.

"You've let him—you've continued utilizing those services even after they were no longer necessary?" The change in Alex's tone was jarring.

"Is Henry in the room?"

"Yep."

"Does he know?"

"Kind of looks like it. Henry, were you eavesdropping?" Layla couldn't make out Henry's response but the weighted sigh from Alex told her everything she needed to know. "Oh, yeah. He's heard it all."

"Great."

Just then Layla heard the lock turn in the front door.

"Shit. Um, Alex, I gotta go. He's here."

"Tell him now!" Alex managed to get the last word in as Layla punched the phone off.

"Am I interrupting something?" Sherlock stepped into her bedroom and carefully laid his coat and suit jacket aside.

"Um. No." Sherlock's eyes lingered over the phone in her hand and then traveled up to Layla's face. He knit his brow briefly and Layla caved. "Uh, well, yeah. But it's fine. Just a phone call to my old friend Alex. You remember Alex, she was the one with the—"

"Did you tell her?" Sherlock folded his trousers and set them beside his coat and jacket.

"Uh—tell her what?"

"That you're pregnant." That piercing stare fixed Layla through and she snapped her mouth shut in shock.

"Well—sort of but… you knew?"

"Obviously." He didn't _seem_ upset as he also laid aside his button down shirt, his lovely purple button down shirt.

"But you continued to visit." Layla sat forward on the bed and started chewing on her lip nervously. She wasn't sure how long Sherlock would keep his cool about her misdirection. For the time being it seemed he would indefinitely.

"Indeed." But then again, he was being uncharacteristically terse.

"Are you angry?"

"About being lied to and manipulated?"He finished undressing and sat down on the bed next to her, catching the bed covers and yanking them away from Layla. "No. What right have I to be upset with you for employing my own tactics."

"So, you're happy? I'm pregnant! Hooray!" Layla offered her excitement weakly as Sherlock peeled the flannel shirt off of her.

"Elated." The stony mask of his face didn't budge a bit.

"Oh, because you don't really seem—"

"I'm thinking." He took her breasts in both hands and weighed them carefully. "Hmm." His brow wrinkled as his hands continued their examination. Moving on to her bottoms he slid them down her legs and then sat back to look her over.

"How long have you known?" Layla tried to keep completely still as Sherlock completed his visual inspection.

"Since my last visit." He ran his hand over the growing bulge of her stomach and narrowed his eyes.

"And you still had sex with me nine times?" She squirmed nervously as Sherlock walked over to the bathroom and rummaged around in the drawers. "You didn't think that that was a waste of time?"

"I'm an addict, Layla. I would have found it unreasonably distracting to quit from you _cold turkey_, as they say." He reemerged from the bathroom holding one of the needles Layla had found all those months before. She almost peed herself at the sight of it.

"OH GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT?" She jerked upright and scrambled out of the bed to the side of the room furthest from Sherlock.

"I need a blood sample to run for hormone levels—"

"OH HELL NO! GET THAT NEEDLE AWAY FROM ME! I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR NEEDLES." She ran, fully unclothed, out of the bedroom and towards the front door, completely intent upon escaping through the exit.

"Layla, stop." Sherlock was faster.

"No. No. No. No." She held her hands up and backed away from Sherlock, moving towards the kitchenette instead.

"Please calm down, woman. Haven't you ever gotten a jab before?"

"YES AND I HATED EVERY SINGLE ONE!" She picked up a baking tray to hold in front of her as a sort of sad shield. "Couldn't you just, you know, take some urine?" She peeked over the edge of it and grimaced pleadingly.

"No. I need to perform more advanced, and precise, chemical analysis than urine allows. It will only take a second and it's a very small phial." He held out the two inch long glass tube that was attached to the evil needle.

"Just, no. How about we just wait and see, it'll be a surprise, everything about the baby like in the olden days!" She fell to her knees in a corner with the aluminum tray out in front of her.

"I would be more comfortable being certain about particular things, like the number of children we've conceived."

Layla dropped the tray. "The number?"

"Mmm." Sherlock helped her to her feet and led Layla towards the sofa.

"The number."

"Yes, that is what I said. Hold your arm out." He fastened a tourniquet around her upper arm and rubbed a bit of alcohol on the inside of her elbow.

"The number of children?"

"Indeed. Your pregnancy is advancing a good deal faster than usual. This will pinch." He gently slid the needle into her arm with a precision that caught Layla's attention.

"Faster than—how so? Ouch. Why are you so good at that?"

Sherlock looked up from the filling tube and straight into Layla's eyes. "I have a lot of practice." He removed the full phial's needle and quickly staunched her bleeding with a cotton ball. "Hold that there." He capped the blood sample and walked it over to the counter. "Your physical signs are more prominent than I expected. I simply want to ascertain how strong the hCG levels are in your blood, if they are within a certain range it is probably because of multiple fetuses, if not it may be dangerous for you or the child."

"I'm more prominent? I'd hardly noticed besides a bit of morning sickness, but I thought that was normal." She cupped her breasts and weighed them for herself. "Although now that you mention it… they are kind of enormous."

Sherlock strode back out of the bedroom fully clothed and glanced at Layla with a small frown. "You should have noticed that sooner. I'm surprised you can wear the same undergarments." He collected a bag Layla hadn't noticed from beside the front door and extracted a number of bottles and boxes which he took to the kitchen table. "How long have you been experiencing the morning sickness?"

"Well, for about six weeks now. I thought I was just being persnickety the first few weeks but then it got pretty intense this month." She swallowed slowly as the very sensation she was describing washed over her. "Speaking of…" She covered her mouth and rushed to the bathroom.

She emerged a few minutes later feeling weak and clammy. "So, I'm guessing no sex then."

Sherlock looked away from the collection of slides he was preparing and shook his head. "No, as appealing as you are right now, no." His mouth quirked with amusement as Layla pulled the bathrobe she had draped over herself closer and shook her head. "This takes precedent." He turned back to his tinkering but spoke up when Layla didn't leave. "Something else?"

"Um, yeah. I'm wondering what you're still doing here." The amusement was gone from his face when Sherlock's eyes met Layla's.

"Is my presence an inconvenience to you?"

"No, it's not that at all. I just would have thought, you know, no sex, baby— or babies—in the oven cooking away, seems like you wouldn't be wasting your time here with me anymore." She crossed her arms tighter over her upper stomach as a second wave of nausea hit her.

"I'm not leaving again. It's nearly time for my return and," he stood to stack the set of fresh slides and store them in a slide pack "when I get back from Molly's lab your morning sickness should have subsided."

"Really?" Layla stepped out of the bedroom wearing her panties and trying to secure a bra she hadn't worn in weeks (having no job allowed for complete laziness and complete laziness usually entailed a lined camisole at best for Layla and a sweat shirt if she got cold). She finally latched it and cackled at the result; most of her breasts were spilling over the top of the fabric.

"Do you not get dressed when I'm gone?" Sherlock glanced up from his packing and blinked at her ill-fitting undergarment.

"Nope." Layla smiled and unfastened the bra, tossing it back into the room. "No need. It's not like I go out or anything and when I do, well, I just haven't lately." She caught Sherlock staring at her now bare chest and smiled to herself. The morning sickness was suddenly very gone and replaced with a warmer, more pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach. It would have to wait.

"We'll have to address that, I plan on you being elsewhere when I engage my plan. For the time being, I'll ask Mycroft to find you something—"

"Nope! I'm fine Sherlock." Layla waved her arms wildly at the thought of having to interact with Mycroft in any situation involving her breast size or things that go on her breasts. "Nope. Nope." She shook her head again at Sherlock.

"Fine. I'll have the results when I return and we can—I can focus on other things then. Do you have that other coat?" He tore open her coat closet and pulled out the black pea coat he had left several months back. "Good." And with that he was gone again, leaving Layla half dressed and a little bit confused about everything.

* * *

When Sherlock returned late that evening it was with a number of sizeable cases and an actual smile on his face.

"Um. Hi?" Layla edged over to the grinning detective and peered up into his face. "Everything… alright?"

His attention snapped to her and the smile weakened slightly. "Yes, everything is perfect. Why? Don't I seem alright?"

"Well, yeah, it's just—you're just smiling. And it's kind of freaky." Sherlock's face fell completely and he glowered down at Layla.

"First my lack of emotion confuses you, now my genuine pleasure is 'freaky.' What doesn't displease you people?" He sneered down at Layla and stalked to the kitchen with his baggage. She had a sneaking suspicion that that comment wasn't only about her.

"So what's got you so excited?" Layla hoped it was good news, like that she's healthy and only has one tiny life growing inside of her.

"My trip was successful in more than one regard. Moran is already in town!" Layla was pretty sure that if he hadn't already been busy tossing book after book over his shoulder as he dug through one of the bags, Sherlock would have stood up and clapped in excitement. "Where is it?" He finally pulled out the book he was looking for and handed it to Layla. "Read that."

"Uh… What to expect when expecting twins? You're joking right?" She winced at the utter serious that fell over Sherlock's face.

"No, not at all. Why would I joke about this?" He leapt up from the table and grabbed one of the other cases he had hauled in with him. "Lift your shirt."

"What?" She did so without a second of hesitation. "Need I ask why?"

"Portable sonogram." Sherlock lifted out a small wand and screen from the case and set it on the table.

"Oh, of course." She hissed as the cool gel hit her stomach.

"See there? Twins." He pointed, a few moments later, at two indistinguishable spots on the screen full of static and then turned off the machine.

"Great…" Layla stared down at her stomach and screamed internally _I'M GOING TO HAVE TO PUSH BOTH OF YOU OUT OF MY BODY._

"Indeed." Sherlock wiped the gel off her stomach and ushered Layla towards the bedroom. "Now get dressed as best you can, we need to secure you some proper clothing so that you can go visit John tomorrow."

"John? Tomorrow? Why?" Layla stumbled towards the wardrobe and pulled a sports bra over her head.

"I'm going to catch Moran tomorrow and I want you to be away from here."

"Are you going to explain why?"

"No."

"I figured." Layla muttered to herself as she finished getting dressed. As excited as Sherlock was, this was a vastly disappointing evening for Layla. Not only did she just learn that not one but two living creatures were going to use her vagina as a painful waterslide but she also had to get dressed and actually leave her apartment instead of having sex. Not a good evening at all.

* * *

When Layla awoke the next morning she was surprised by two things. One, that the dream she had been having, that is a colorful romp of sex and spanking with Sherlock, was not in fact reality. And two, that one of the outfits she and Sherlock had purchased the previous day was laying, waiting for her it seemed, on his side of the bed and with a note. This was disappointing for a number of reasons. The sex was a pure figment of her imagination. After all the build up the previous day, she had been sent to bed while Sherlock sat in his chair and impressively imitated a statue. In addition, the clothing next to her implied moving, moving and leaving the flat, and in the state she was in neither of those things sounded appealing.

After a refreshing bout of hurling up nothing, Layla teetered feebly back to the bed and read the note: _When you awake, go to John's and __wait__. I will find you. _

"Fuuuuck." Layla growled as she wrestled her noticeably more sensitive boobs into a bra almost three cup sizes bigger than to what she was used. She stomped out of her rooms a little over a half hour later feeling moody and belligerent.

"I pity the man who encounters me first." She snarled to herself as she squeezed her coat closed over her breasts and stomach. Fortunately, the walk to John's was mostly decent and she didn't really need the constricting coat, so she took it off.

She had almost made it all the way to John's without a problem or any incident when she heard the one voice she hadn't expected or wanted to hear ever again. "Hey, McManis!" As Layla stepped off the curb on the far side of Baker St. a steel cold hand clamped down over her wrist and spun her around.

"Darren!" Layla squeaked when Kellen pulled her back towards him and out of the crosswalk. Her first reaction was to scream for help but he had slapped a hand over her mouth almost immediately. When she flailed about to attract the attention of any passersby she noticed that the street was weirdly empty.

_Oh my god. Holy fucking shit, he's going to rape me in broad daylight and not a single person is going to notice._ Panic began to set in as Darren hauled her squirming to a nearby alleyway and whispered in her ear.

"I'm going to do things to you that I only joked about before." He pinned her against the wall and pulled out a knife. "Oh, and look at that, you've gotten some tits while I was away. Congrats." He slipped the blade of his knife down the front of her shirt, stopping half way so that just her breasts were exposed. As he was gawking hungrily at her cleavage and tinkering absentmindedly with his blade Layla tossed her coat, which she held in her free hand, into his face and ducked.

As she had expected, he swung at her with the blade and while all of his weight and momentum was rushing forward towards where she had been pinned she kicked his knees out from under him. He fell like a rock and landed on the ground with a thud.

"MCMANIS!" He roared at her as he ripped the jacket from his face and groped around for his blade. Layla, however, had snatched up the weapon while he was on the ground and had turned to make her escape. He once again grabbed hold of her wrist but as he yanked Layla back towards him she flailed wildly with the blade in her hand. "Don't you run away from me, I'm going to—" It only took one swipe to silence his threat. Layla dropped the knife and ran out of the alley without a second thought as Darren Kellen sunk to the ground grasping his throat, trying to catch the life that was pouring from him.

* * *

"Layla! Are you alright?" John answered the door in a fluster after Layla pounded insanely against it.

"No, I—I think I just k—ki—killed a man." She was visibly shaking and her left hand was splattered with a good amount of blood, not to mention the shirt that was hanging torn from her chest.

"Dear God, what happened dear?" Mary rushed from the interior of the house and fluttered around Layla nervously.

"Tell me exactly what happened, Layla." John helped her to a chair. "Did her try to—er…?" He gestured to her shirt.

"Yes. It was Darren. Darren Kellen. He found me as I crossed Baker St. on my way and he pulled me down an alley and—and cut my new shirt and then—oh I'm not really sure what happened I just know when I tried to run he grabbed me again and when I swung around I cut his throat. I didn't mean to kill him, I just wanted to do enough damage to escape." She was wild eyed and pale, her adrenaline clearly still coursing through her veins.

"Shh. Shh. You're fine. It's all going to be fine. No one is going to blame you for this." John draped a blanket over her shoulders to soothe the shock that was setting in and to cover her exposed chest. "Mary, love, will you fetch my bag?"

Mary sprinted back in with John's collection of medical odds and ends that he had collected when they adopted a child, more than first aide but not quite clinic level.

"Thanks, now Layla, I'm going to check your vitals. While I do this, I need you to tell me if he hurt you in anyway and where."

"No. No. Just the grabbing, nothing happened besides that." She shivered at the thought of what could have happened.

"Good. So he didn't touch you anywhere besides the wrist he grabbed you by?"

"No. Were fine, just fine." Layla instinctively laid her un-bloodied hand over her stomach and breathed deeply. John and Mary shared a significant look but were kept from asking any questions by the musical ringing of one of their phones.

"Oh—just sit tight, Layla. I've got to get that." John hustled to the kitchen to retrieve his cell, leaving Mary to continue soothing Layla. "Say it again, Mrs. Hudson, slow down. Say it again," John sounded agitated in the kitchen and both women paused to look at the doctor "okay, stay downstairs and I'll be right there." John clicked off the call and marched back to the rear of the house. Emerging a couple moments later with a pistol he paused in front of the door, "Mary, Mrs. Hudson has someone starting problems in 221 B. I'm going to help her sort it. Layla, I'll be back and we can finish the exa—"

"I'm coming with you." She stood from the chair, her adrenalin making her feel invincible, and flung the blanket off her shoulders.

"Well, I can't stop you, but I really think you should stay and get some rest."

"No. I want to go, I think it may be the reason Darren found me." _If Darren was near Baker St., probably keeping watch, Moran is most likely at Baker St. or thereabouts. That would also explain the weird emptiness. Moran at Baker St. and Sherlock commencing his plan all on the same day points to Sherlock and Moran creating the hubbub. I need to know if he is okay. _Layla made her decision and moved to follow John out the door but was stopped by a gentle tug on her arm. She found Mary behind her holding out a sweat shirt.

"Here, dear, this way you're at least covered."

Layla looked down at her mostly bare bosom and accepted the hoodie with a smile, "Thanks, Mary. You're a peach." With that she jogged down the hall after John.

"Now, I don't know why you're so set on coming with me," John glanced over his shoulder at Layla as he marched out of the house, "but whatever you do, stay behind me. I don't know what's happening and I've come prepared." He patted one of his trouser pockets, clearly carrying a pistol.

"Yes sir!" Layla scampered along, matching pace with John's smart stride.

"Cheeky." John sighed and cut his eye at Layla. "And _that's_ not behind me."

"Fine, fine. Don't get you panties in a bunch." Layla slowed her steps a bit and fell in behind John. They crossed over to Baker St. without a hitch and were soon buzzing for Mrs. Hudson.

"Blimey, it's quiet." John glanced around as they waited for the land lady to answer. "Was it like this when you passed?"

"Yep. And it weirded me out. I think Darren was meant to be on post for something. You know," she peered around the road with her back to John, "to make sure no one got in the way."

"Got in the way?" John stepped off the top step when no one answered the door. "Got in the way of what? This?" He stepped further back and waved Layla aside. "I'm going to kick it in."

"Kick the door in, John? Is that wise?" Layla grimaced as the doctor stutter stepped towards the door a few times, as if in preparation.

"No, it's bleeding well not. But Mrs. Hudson was panicking on the line and now she's not answering the door, so something must be done." He stepped down the stairs one last time and was swaying to run up and against the door when Mrs. Hudson threw it open.

"There's—there's—" She looked beyond flustered as she pointed frantically up the stairs.

"You're alright, Mrs. Hudson." John caught the wavering landlady and helped her to sit on the steps. "Just breathe, I'll take care of everything—Layla, wait!" John reached after her as Layla darted up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had been panicking and then pointing up the stairs, Layla sure as hell was going to figure out what was upstairs.

"I'm fine, John. I just want to see!" She reached the top of the stairs and burst inside with John several steps behind. "Oh, thank god." Layla dropped her hands to her knees as she took in the scene unfolding in 221B.

"Jesus Christ." John sagged against the door frame and stared dumbfounded at the figures in front of Layla. "Jesus Christ." He shook his head, a look of sheer amazement playing across his face.

Layla didn't blame John for his reaction, she had been expecting something similar and she was still shocked; in fact, she couldn't even fathom what was coursing through his brain. What she could do was take stock of the situation and that was easy, after all she was pretty sure she would remember the scene before her for many years.

The foremost thing about the sight was the absolute devastation of the flat. Furniture had been overturned and smashed apart. The empty tables had all been stripped of their legs and were lying uselessly around the main room. The legs meanwhile had been engaged elsewhere. That's where the two figures came into play. One, clearly the less successful, lay on his face, a lattice structure made from the six of the table legs decorating his back and providing a base onto which his limbs were tied. The other, the one John was gaping at, stood holding the two remaining legs like cudgels and glaring angrily at Layla. Sherlock was not especially pleased to find her there.

"I told you to wait at John's!" He was really not pleased. The veins pulsing in his neck, wide eyed and snarling type of not pleased. It caused Layla to take a step back. John on the other hand had a slightly more interactive response.

"YOU HEARTLESS—" John's fist plummeted towards Sherlock's cheek faster than even Sherlock could respond. It had helped that he had been trying to deduce why Layla was wearing one of John's old army pull-overs. "—ASS!" The sickening crunch that followed the impact made Layla worry for Sherlock's teeth. John hissed as he shook out his fist and Sherlock stumbled backwards over his old arm chair. "DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT—SHERLOCK—WHAT THE FUCK? HOW CAN YOU BE—I SAW YOU FALL, I SAW YOU BLEEDING. ON THE GROUND BLEEDING. PROPERLY DEAD. YOU—" he calmed down slightly and ran his hands over his face. "—You had no pulse. Do you know what that does to a person? What it did to many people? YOU SAID," John shook his head and set his jaw as his temper mounted again, "YOU DIDN'T HAVE FRIENDS, THAT YOU HAD ONE, ME, BUT YOU HAD PLENTY OF PEOPLE MOURNING, CRUSHED AND MOURNING OVER YOU, SHERLOCK." John practically roared in frustration as Sherlock scrambled off the floor and over the chair in as dignified a manner as he could muster. He didn't look upset, not at John, as Layla waited for him to start yelling back. Indeed, his cool, detached demeanor had returned and set his face, his now bleeding face, in the trademark mask. He straightened his suit and opened his mouth to counter, but apparently John wasn't finished.

"YOU—" He flexed his hand again, apparently thinking about resorting to his fist again since the words weren't coming to him "—LYING BASTARD. I—" John began pacing the entry way of the sitting room, hands balled into fists and face red with anger. "I'd liked to say that I'm surprised. Hell, I begged—" he closed his eyes and sucked in his lips "—I begged at your headstone for you not to be dead, but THREE FUCKING YEARS. Three years, Sherlock. Why?" John held his hands in front of him and stared down into them. Layla watched John silently, he had moved from astonishment to rage to confusion very quickly and she was pretty sure he had more to say besides that one, sad question. Sherlock on the other hand was unmovingly composed, keeping his eyes on John without the slightest concern about the trickle of blood marring his right cheek.

"Why did you have to die?" John looked up at Sherlock and he looked broken again, like the first day Layla had returned from Greece. There was sadness etched on that face and it hurt Layla, it reminded her of all the lies she had told to John straight to his face and all the thousands of others that had been by omission. _I wonder how Sherlock feels right now?_ For once, Layla felt bad for him. This couldn't be easy for Sherlock either, although he looked as though it was a usual business transaction. There was only the slight scrunching of his left eye that betrayed him. This was killing him.

"John, I—" Sherlock squared his shoulders and took a step towards John but John was not having any of that.

"No, Sherlock. No. None of your shit right now." He held out a finger, accusingly, at Sherlock and backed away. "I'm angry and I deserve a proper explanation and so does Layla—" he nodded towards her and then stuttered to a mental halt. His brow dropped low and his mouth opened slightly. "—hold it. Is that—" another accusing finger, this time at Layla's belly, directed all of their attention to her. "—you said that you had told her to stay with me. Is _that_ yours?"

"If by that, you mean those, the children, then yes. I believe the garment, however, is yours, John." Sherlock kicked the man on the ground, the man who Layla recognized as her cab driver from New Zealand and presumed to be Moran, as he began squirming towards one of the guns lying nearby.

John narrowed his eyes as the full brunt of that realization hit him and he turned, openly disappointed, with a sad shake of his head away from Layla. "She knew all along."

"No. And before you become irreconcilably upset with her, she only knew by accident. If all had gone to plan, she would have found out with you and _would not be here right now_." He didn't raise his voice or even look towards Layla but the inflection on those words conveyed the displeasure that his stoic face did not. Layla took that to be her cue and turned towards the front door. _Maybe a cup of decaf tea with Mrs. Hudson. She could probably use some normalcy what with finding her dead tenant upstairs wrestling an assassin—_Layla's train of thought was broken when she stood facing a wall of wool suit. Mycroft blocked her exit, three piece suit and umbrella of majesty greatly offsetting the generally shabby appearance of the man standing behind him. Layla had only met DI Lestrade once or twice, but she didn't remember him looking so disheveled.

"Dr. McManis, I don't believe you're meant to be here." Mycroft's imperious gaze, while not as enraged as his younger brother's, was still vastly intimidating. It also told Layla just how well planned this encountered had been, that was until she and John had stumbled blindly into it.

"I'll, uh… just be in the back." Layla tiptoed away from Mycroft and Lestrade and slipped inside Sherlock's old room just as she heard Lestrade's voice cry out, clearly surprised,

"My god! Sherlock?" Layla closed the door before any of the other men could respond to one another. The meeting was too intimate, Layla felt like she was intruding just by listening. So she didn't, she laid down on the bare bed and set her hands on her stomach. Suddenly she found herself crying. Openly weeping, to be more accurate, tears were streaming, hot and stinging, down her face and pooling in the hollow of her throat. She was happy, relieved and happy. Finally, after all these years and all the lunacy and lies the happy little family at 221B Baker St could pick up again. Sure, there would be some changes, for one Layla was pretty sure John would not move back in, and there were children, soon to be three, in the equation now, but it was something. Sherlock would have John again and John Sherlock and Layla the comfort of the two of them together.

"What a relief." She sighed happily and wiped her face.

"Indeed." Layla jerked towards the door and found Mycroft leaning easily against it.

"Good god, you're sneaky."

"You were sobbing, it was difficult to hear anything over that, even for me." He extended his hand, a handkerchief sitting on his palm. "I've been _sent_ to ascertain your state. Are you _alright_?"

"Um, yeah. Fine, just fine." Layla sat up and blotted at her face with the hanky.

"You were wailing so loudly we could all hear."

"Happy wailing. Wails of joy." Layla cleared her throat and hung her head in an attempt to hide her blush. She had not realized she had been crying that loudly. "Um, so who—"

"John." Mycroft anticipated her question.

"Ah, that makes sense. Yes, he would be the one who was concerned."

"Although, my brother was none too focused on the matter at hand. It seems you may have something even more important to him than the apprehension of Moran." Mycroft's eyes wandered from Layla's face to her well hidden stomach. As it was, he couldn't have concluded anything from the voluminous mass of sweatshirt covering her but Mycroft did seem to know all about her pregnancy nonetheless. "It did, however, mention that you should shut up. No matter what you have of _such_ an interest, your shrieking was interrupting his explanation of the situation to which I must now return." He stepped back towards the front room and left Layla rolling her eyes and nervously twisting the hanky. She wasn't excited about the prospect of Sherlock being angry with her. The morose thoughts of Sherlock's sulking shunning were soon invaded by the voices from the front room. With the door left open by Mycroft, Layla could clearly hear the conversation and, staying as quiet as possible, she crept towards the door and peeked out.

Mycroft blocked her view slightly, but from what she could see it seemed Lestrade had gathered Moran and left, or at least moved him out of sight, already leaving John and Sherlock facing off in the center of the room. John still looked upset, back straight and shoulders squared, but his fists were no longer clenched tight and his arms were instead crossed. Layla couldn't see but the barest profile of his face and from that he seemed perturbed but not furious, he was at least listening very carefully to what Sherlock had to say. Layla could see little of Sherlock himself but she could tell from the cadence of his voice that he was excited about something.

"—I took the opportunity to lure him here, and fortunately he didn't bring Kellen with him or I might have—" Layla had just thought John had calmed down.

"That's where you're wrong Sherlock! Kellen was here—"

"What? No—"

"Yeah, if it weren't for Layla you'd probably be dead!" John gestured angrily towards the back room and Mycroft turned to reveal a truly shocked Sherlock. The three men looked back and caught her peeking out at them. She gave a squeak of surprise and ducked out of sight, but it was too late.

"Layla? What? How?" Sherlock's voice was nearing and Layla bit her lip as he swung into the room. Blue, sharp eyes met hers and moved back and forth between them. "Come out here, if you please." He stormed out after he had completed whatever visual check that had been. Layla followed, meekly for once and stood on the perimeter of the room scuffing the toe of her shoe against the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Moran was sitting cuffed on the couch and Lestrade was leaning, a little weakly, against that wall listening with what had to be described as utter shock.

"Layla? Would you care to explain John's sensational claim." She looked up from her sneakers but avoided all four men's eyes.

"Um. Well…" She scratched her neck thoughtfully as she tried to decide how best to phrase 'Darren tried to rape me' in a way that would be the least incendiary. "I… distracted him." It was close enough.

"No," John chimed in, ever so helpfully, "Kellen caught her as she headed across Baker St. dragged her into the alley down the way, ripped open her shirt and threatened to rape her." Even Mycroft looked surprised. Sherlock's expression was less clear. Layla couldn't decide if it was absolute, unmitigated rage hidden behind a veil of indifference or a novel look of fear masquerading as nonchalance. Either way, he was trying not visibly to be affected and it made him look like he'd been electrocuted.

"My god, what happened?" Lestrade spoke up as John glared at Sherlock and the two Holmes brothers blinked at Layla. Apparently Lestrade had been listening despite his vacant expression of bafflement.

"She somehow got a hold of his knife and sliced open the bastard's throat." John held his hand out to Layla and led her to the armchair beside him. "Speaking of, I really should complete my examination, especially now that I know you're pregnant and with twins." He knelt down in front of her, lowering his voice, and took her pulse again. "I wish I had my kit. I should really check on the babies." John knitted his brow as he glanced at her stomach area.

"That's perfect, John. Take Layla back to your other house and perform the evaluation there. I will retrieve her within the hour." Sherlock stopped rambling at Lestrade to issue his orders.

"Um, no. I actually left some supplies with Mrs. Hudson; I'll fetch her and them now." John defiantly met Sherlock's disgruntled scowl and then hustled down the stairs.

While John was still downstairs Sherlock left Mycroft and Lestrade as they discussed how to handle Moran and quietly approached Layla. She had her eyes closed, just enjoying the relative calm and the soothing rhythm of her heartbeat in her belly. He sat down, in his old seat, across from her and leaned forward so that his clasped hands were almost touching her knees.

"I made a mistake." Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, it was close and quiet, it was startling. The softness of his eyes was even more so. He looked almost contrite. "I should not have sent you this way on your own. I wanted you away from the danger and I simply put you directly in it. I should have foreseen that Moran would post a guard on the street and that, of course, it would be Kellen." He slid further out of his seat and extended his hand. Layla could hardly believe he would do something so intimate as fondly touch her stomach in full view of all these people, but there he was half kneeling on the floor with his hands cupping her belly. "I put the children in danger, and that is inexcusable. Please, forgive me."

Sherlock looked sharply away from Layla as a tiny gasp sounded beside them. Mrs. Hudson had her hand to her mouth and was paler than a ghost; she still clearly hadn't recovered from Sherlock's return. "Babies?" She squeaked out and fanned her face.

"Twins." John smiled warmly between the two women as he replaced Sherlock in front of Layla. Sherlock had slipped away from her immediately upon discovering they had an audience.

"My god, you're pregnant?" Lestrade leaned around Mycroft, Mycroft who was looking incredibly bored of the whole situation, and continued looking utterly bewildered.

"Yes." Layla nodded with an affirming grin. She was really trying to ignore Mycroft's eyeroll and the fact that the poor DI had had only 'my god, _object of surprise_' at his disposal so far that evening.

"And they're Sherlock's!" John met Layla's eye as they both swallowed their amusement.

"Huh?" The two of them broke into laughter when that news deprived Lestrade of any real words.

Sherlock passed behind the chair, on his way ostensibly to resume his conversation with Mycroft and Lestrade, but as he did so he let his fingers graze the back of the chair and then Layla's neck and hair. She smiled, a quieter grin than the one accompanying her conspiratorial laughter with John. Sherlock's subtly affectionate gesture coupled with the easy friendliness with John, simultaneous in fact, made Layla indescribably content. Things really were going to return to normal, perhaps even better than normal.

**A/N redux: So, this was meant actually to be the last chapter but I couldn't stand not to write about Sherlock meeting his children. Expect a final installment, but not very soon, I'm still working on those seminar papers. Oh, and I have some names in mind but I would love suggestions…**


	17. I've Seen All Good People

**A/N: It's a bit long, whoops! Cheers.**

"Layla. Layla! LAYLA! For god's sake, Layla, come sit down."

"Leave her alone, John."

John was standing at the foot of the stairs shouting up uselessly to Layla.

"She can't even see her own feet, Sherlock, much less enough of what's in front of her to be decorating a baby's room. She should be sitting, relaxing. I _am_ a doctor, I would know." John sighed with exasperation and began to stomp up the stairs.

"You're wasting your time." Sherlock raised his voice so that John could still hear him, and hopefully Layla as well. "That woman is that most stubborn individual I've ever met." He rolled his eyes as John's footfalls continued sounding up the stairs and he returned to his microscope.

Layla meanwhile had heard every word both John and Sherlock had said; she had just chosen to ignore them. The room was almost completely arranged and she wasn't going to let a little back, foot and general all over pain keep her from finishing, much less two nagging man-hens.

"Layla. Honestly, you _need_ to sit down and rest. Sherlock says you've been at this all day, that's incredible for a woman as far along as you are with just one child. Now, come on. I'll help you down the stairs."

Layla looked up from one of the crib's bumpers and narrowed her eyes at John. He certainly looked serious, hands on his hips and jaw set.

"Fine." She set down the set of padded liners and hobbled over to the door. Hobbling was about the only thing she could do anymore, her stomach was distended enough she couldn't even reach around it properly and her feet were so swollen lifting them significantly was a bother. It wasn't surprising, however. If she were being completely objective, it was absolutely amazing she had made it this long. Eight and a half months was a surprisingly long term for twins.

"Careful now. Step." John supported her weight from the side and acted as her eyes as she carefully tottered down the stairs. "There, now you take a seat and we'll have some water and toast. Sound alright? Sherlock." John left Layla in his old armchair and kicked Sherlock's chair as he walked past him to the fridge.

"What?"

"Stop your science experiment and help the mother of your children get those shoes off."

Sherlock didn't look away from the eyepiece of his microscope. "I'm sure she can manage. She always lets us know when she can't."

"No, she can't. Look at her." Sherlock glanced over at Layla as she flailed around her stomach in an attempt to grab her shoe laces. It was like watching a dog try to catch its tail, but less effectively. Sherlock sighed loudly and stepped away from the kitchen table.

"Stop. Moving." He knelt down in front of Layla and quickly untied and slipped off the sneakers. Layla sighed with relief as her poor bloated feet were freed from their canvas prisons.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She flopped back against the chair and smiled at him. He softly trailed his fingers over her stomach and arm in response but slipped away when John bustled over.

"Here. Some water and toast with that horrid peanut butter you asked for." John set the plate in Layla's hand and the water beside her on the table. "I'm going to check on Chester, shout if you need anything." He scampered back up the stairs to where his own one year old was napping in one of the finished cribs.

Since Layla had become too pregnant to make the daily trip over to John and Mary's, he had begun bringing the baby over to 221 and leaving him for Layla, and occasionally Sherlock, to watch while he went to the surgery.

"Alright, he's fine, still sleeping. I'm off for a short shift. I'll be back after tea. If _anything_ happens call and I'll come to help. Sherlock, don't be negligent." John lingered at the door for a few more seconds and looked around the flat as though ticking off things on a mental list.

"Yes, thank you John." Sherlock smoothly rose from his seat and shooed John from the room, shutting the door with a snap.

"You didn't have to be so rude, Sherlock. John's been a great help." Layla let her plate rest on her stomach and munched half-heartedly on the bread.

"He prattles, like a child. If he were really helping, he'd have given you some peace so you could finish the nursery." Sherlock settled on his own arm chair and picked up the book he had been reading before John had arrived.

"I think he just worries. He's being a good friend." She laid aside the toast with distaste and brushed the crumbs from her blouse. It seemed hardly anything was appealing for more than a couple of days anymore. "Help me up, please. I want some eggs."

"I'll get them." Sherlock wandered to the kitchen his nose still buried in his book and returned shortly with two boiled eggs. "And he's being over-anxious, which is of no use to you and irritating for me. You're still quite capable on your own."

"Thanks. I know," she nibbled cautiously at the peeled egg, "but I do appreciate some help, like just now. That was very nice of you."

"It was simpler than hauling you out of that chair." Sherlock raised an eyebrow over the edge of his book and smiled behind its pages.

"Oh, good. Make fun of the enormous pregnant lady." Layla shook her head and finished her first egg with a grudging smile. Sherlock was joking, in his own special way he had begun sharing his humor with her, when John wasn't around.

"Oof. One of them's kicking again." She set a hand over the assaulted area of her abdomen. "I can't believe you can't see them sticking their feet through my stomach muscles, they kick so hard." She grimaced and leaned back in the chair to try to reposition herself. It didn't work. Sherlock, on the other hand, set down his book and squatted in front of her stomach with acute interest. He had, ever since the twins had started moving, been intently observant of their movements. With both hands on her stomach and the tiniest smile curving one side of his mouth, Sherlock murmured quietly under his breath and gazed fondly around the area of her bellybutton.

"They are remarkably active today." He found Layla wincing when he looked up from the series of patters under his hands. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I think they've found a way to jump on my bladder. I need to go to the toilet, now." Sherlock lifted her from the chair and tried to walk her to the back but she waved him off with a laugh. "I think I can still take care of at least this on my own."

"You know, if you wanted John to stop nagging, you could have come and helped me with the babies' room. That way we could have finished quicker without the good doctor calling down the social services for new mummy abuse." Layla lowered herself carefully back into the chair and waited for Sherlock's sure to be terse response.

"If you had wanted help you would have asked." Layla smiled to herself, he was right of course. "I would have only impeded your nesting." Sherlock had read every baby book available to him within the first three months after he returned and had apparently internalized all of it.

"True. True. As always, you're spot on correct." Layla watched with half-lidded eyes Sherlock's contented response, he always smiled when she agreed with him, even with teeth when she included the words 'always' and 'correct.' Sherlock wasn't the only one who could observe human behavior.

"Ow. Ow, ow, ow, oh stop little ones please. That's mummy's stomach." She squirmed again as both babies, it seemed, began punching and kicking upwards.

"Would you like to lie down?" Sherlock's brow was furrowed at Layla's discomfort, the babies had never caused her this much distress before.

"No, I think I'll be okay. It's just my body is pretty achy. My back especially is really killing me."

"Yes, let's get you to the bed." Sherlock dragged Layla from the armchair and pointed her towards the back room. "Off you go, lie on your side." He shooed her back to the bedroom and collected his book, her water and plate, placing the first under his arm, and disposing of the last on the way to the back with her.

"Do you have the monitor?" Sherlock pulled the asked for device from his pocket and waved it as proof. "Okay, I think you have the right idea. A nice nap. Listen for coughing, Chester has been having some respiratory problems, according to Mary." Layla rolled onto her side and placed a pillow in between her knees. "And—"

"I can cope with one child, Layla. Get some rest." Sherlock sat next to her and let his left hand rest on her side while holding his book with the other. The gesture certainly helped Layla calm down and sleep, his large, warm palm in contact with her seemed also to quiet the children.

It was almost two hours before Sherlock was forced to sneak from the room and soothe the whining of little Chester. When Layla didn't stir he clicked off the baby monitor and darted up the stairs.

"Hush now, you've only wet your nappie." Sherlock lifted the now crying infant from the crib and set him on the changing table.

"Shh. Shh. Quiet now, you'll soon be changed and put back to sleep." Sherlock spoke low and softly, not normally but certainly not in a coddling fashion, because the sound of his voice seemed to quiet the baby.

"You don't understand a word I say but you can read my tone. Now, back to sleep." Sherlock smiled at the now happily cooing baby and laid him back to sleep in the crib. The problem was the child wasn't interested in sleeping any longer. He was soon wailing loudly at the absence of Sherlock's attention.

"Now, now, Chester, we mustn't be overloud, you'll wake Layla. What do you want? It isn't time for your feeding yet." Sherlock lifted the baby back out of the cot and soon found his answer. The child was instantly smiling and quiet again. Sherlock sighed and grabbing a few of Chester's toys padded back down the stairs with the baby.

When he returned Layla was awake, eyes open and smiling with the baby monitor on and next to her face. "Have a nice conversation with baby Chester?"

Sherlock frowned at her unconcealed delight and laid the baby down next to her. "He responds positively to my voice. I was merely mollifying him."

"Well, it sure did work. Look how happy he is and he's normally not very chipper after his naps." Layla tickled Chester's little feet and laughed softly as the baby squirmed around and giggled.

"There is no reason that I shouldn't excel at child rearing as well." Sherlock returned to his book with a distinctly grumpy huff but didn't shy away from Layla laying her head on his lap.

"No, and I wouldn't expect otherwise. I simply cannot wait to see how you handle twins." Layla dangled a stuffed bear over Chester's head and smoothed his soft downy hair over his head.

"I could say the same of you." Sherlock didn't look away from his book but the sourness had already faded from his voice and his spare hand had returned to her belly.

Layla drew a deep breath rested her now free hand next to his. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too."

"Nonsense. I was joking with you, you've already proven your capability with Chester, no doubt you will be able to cope with your own even if there are two of them. I will be there to help besides." Sherlock peered over the pages of the _Short Guide to Cognitive Theory_ and met Layla's now worried eye. His clear, blue sureness gave her heart and she returned her attention to the baby next to her. Even if he was an ass sometimes, Sherlock had become singularly adept at reassuring Layla that the two of them could handle the upcoming lifelong challenge.

* * *

Sherlock was out when the pain started. Something about a child in a coma and a mysterious toxin. Layla hadn't been listening to Sherlock when the call came in, the baby clothing they ordered two weeks before had arrived that morning. What she did remember is that Sherlock was acutely upset that John would not be accompanying him to the hospital.

"_John and Mary just dropped Chester off with Clara. Let them have their vacation, Sherlock."_

"_Why? Why should their holiday be more enthralling than a case in which John's medical knowledge might finally be well used?" _

"_It's probably the first time they've had a chance to, you know, have some alone time since they adopted Chezzy. You understand that surely."_

"_No. Priorities, Layla. We all have different priorities."_

Sherlock had stomped angrily from the flat and had been away for almost seven hours. Now, it was early afternoon and Layla was torn. She had read the books, she knew the signs. Back pain was the start. She certainly had back pain, it was throbbing and coming in waves, but she was also well versed in Sherlock's moods. A tantrum like what he had thrown earlier was not easily recovered from, he would be impossibly impetuous if she called him from his case before it was absolutely necessary. On the other hand, he might not react so well to being left in the dark. It was a tough call.

* * *

Sherlock was not well pleased when his phone chimed that evening.

"Sherlock. Your phone, I think you have a text." Lestrade held out the device that had sat on a nearby table.

"Yes, I heard." He didn't look away from the glass in front of him.

"It's not your fault Sherlock, they should've mentioned that he was diabetic. That's the first thing his parents should have said, it wasn't even on his medical records."

Sherlock grumbled and turned away from the empty hospital room.

"Now I have to go file the report. I think they'll both be indicted. Charges of negligence at least." Lestrade sighed sadly and thumped Sherlock on the shoulder. "You did all you could, don't let it bother you. You're not even a doctor."

"Yes, but I should have figured it out. I've gotten slow." Lestrade scuffed his heel and then strode through the door. There was nothing else he could say to provide solace to Sherlock. The child had died. Lestrade felt rotten but Sherlock had shown special interest in this case. Eight hours of chemical analysis of nearly every substance in the boy's home and all they had needed to ask was what he had eaten. The hospital was bound to be sued. The doctor's were already on probation. The DI groaned. This would require a shed load of paperwork and Sherlock would be intractably difficult for a while as a result. He should never have called him in.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stared transfixed at the hospital bed. Medically, he was too unversed, knew too little. He needed to do some reading before Layla delivered. He should return promptly and begin, but something was tugging at the back of his mind. Diabetes was such a common congenital condition, there were so many congenital conditions. What if their children had such conditions? What if they received them from him? Was he actually genetically sound? His phone chirped again, ending the string of absurd and emotionally driven questions.

Sherlock roughly shook his head and retrieved the phone. It was another text from Layla. If it was about another poorly made pair of booties he was going to put something in her drink that night. She had been nearly impossible to sleep beside recently as it was, maybe he should do so anyway. He pulled up the first text as he strode from the room and paused.

_I have a question for you when you have a minute._ A question? What sort of leading text was this? Why not just ask the damn question. Had she done something she regretted, was ashamed of? The second text was less ambiguous.

_Never mind, I have some news._ News? She definitely had something to talk to him about and either she was hesitant about it or about his mood. Most likely the latter considering how he left her that morning and the length of time he had been away. So she needed to talk to him, not urgently but enough to make her overcome the anxiety about disturbing him and inciting his temper. The babies. It was something about the babies. Some minor bother or pain, most likely.

The mobile rang into his ear, tone after tone as his anxiety built. Silly woman should have called him. Any twinge of pain or unusual pressure could indicate preeclampsia or abruption. Pick up, pick up, pick up, Sherlock ran over the mantra as he waited for Layla to answer.

"Why isn't she answering?" Sherlock slammed through a cluster of paparazzi waiting outside the hospital. They shouted and jostled to get to him but he just plunged on through. The media had been desperate to interview him since his return, to life and to consulting. He had avoided it up until now by being discreet and taking out of the way routes but now, now he needed to get straight home.

There were few taxis on the main road so he jogged across the road and down an alley. Layla's phone rang out and Sherlock ripped his glove from his right hand in frustration and punched the phone off. He needed to call Mrs. Hudson, John, Molly, someone who could check on Layla. That's when his phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Sorry, I was peeing and I couldn't get up in time." Sherlock slowed his pace and growled into the mouthpiece.

"You—you were in the toilet?" He steadied his voice. The last thing he needed was for Layla to hear that he had been concerned. That might panic her. "What is it you needed? To tell me news of some sort?"

The line was quiet for a few seconds and Sherlock felt his heart rate accelerate again.

"I think I may have started labor." She didn't sound very confident.

"You think?"

"Yeah, my back hurts, like cramping, and the—"

"No bleeding?" Sherlock's voice was sharp. This was what he had been anxious about.

"No. None, and I am technically full term on Monday so I guess this is to be expected." She hissed quietly. "And let me tell you, it doesn't feel too nice. It's kind of gross too, I was just in the toilet and—" Sherlock hung up the phone. The silly woman indeed. She should have said 'I've gone into labor' instead of sending him unnecessarily worrying texts.

Layla looked at the dead phone testily and then slunk over to the couch. She should have known Sherlock would be bored by the development. It wasn't exactly a major thing, back pain. Woo.

"What now?" Layla looked over at Fluffy in his hutch in the corner and made her decision. She would play with the rabbit. Maybe he could distract her from the throbbing.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock marched in and stood rooted on the spot.

"What are you doing?" He pursed his lips and blinked at Layla with apparent irritation.

"Entertaining myself." Layla couldn't see Sherlock over her stomach but she could hear in his voice everything that was so clearly written across his face. "I hope that's not a problem."

Sherlock sighed and disappeared into the bedroom. Layla shrugged and patted the rabbit's head as he snuggled down onto her stomach. She could hear Sherlock rustling around in the back and frowned.

"Everything okay?"

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. Mad at her? Perhaps. Layla exhaled as her back spasmed again. She should probably get up and move around, it would be good for the muscles and she could see what Sherlock was doing.

"Where have you put the receiving blankets?" Sherlock shouted from the back just as Layla hoisted herself from the couch. He was packing the hospital bag. Layla grinned, he may be pissy but he was more concerned about her and the children. _How sweet._

"They're in the linen closet on the third shelf." Layla set Fluffy in his cage and climbed up off her knees. It took more effort than she had anticipated and she found herself light-headed and dizzy when she was finally on her feet. To add to it, pain like a bolt of electricity surged through her lower abdomen. Luckily, Sherlock returned from the bedroom with the bag in time to catch Layla stumbling forward.

"What is it?" He held her shoulders in a vice like grip and dipped down in front of her. "Layla? What's the matter."

"Oof…" Layla panted quietly and gritted her teeth. "First contraction I think." She screwed her eyes tight shut and set her hands onto Sherlock's lovely, unwrinkled dress shirt, twisting the material tighter as the pain increased. He didn't complain at all.

"Breathe, I'll call the hospital." Sherlock tried to extract himself but Layla was clamped on hard. "Layla, release me so I can prepare for the trip. Sit. On the couch." Layla's fingers loosened and she breathed in relief.

"Oh, it's over. That wasn't so bad." She rolled her shoulders out from Sherlock's grip and tottered to the couch.

Sherlock watched her silently and then shook his head. Silly woman. "It'll get worse. Don't become complaisant." Layla sat down quietly without acknowledging his warning.

"Layla, did you hear me?"

"Yeah. Oh I heard you, I was just thinking about stuff." She looked down at her stomach for a few moments and the back up at Sherlock. "I think I'll deliver them naturally, without analgesics."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and dialed the number for the hospital. "We'll see."

* * *

Six hours later they were in a maternity ward waiting vestibule across town. Sherlock had insisted on finding a hospital where Layla would have a private birthing room and then demanded that their obstetrician follow them there. So far they had found a ward where a room would be available but not for another half hour and their obstetrician was not answering Sherlock's calls. Things weren't going well.

"Sherlock… is this a good plan?" Layla was feeling uncertain for the first time. She wanted Dr. Grady, Dr. Grady had been inspecting her for this entire pregnancy, knew her preferences intimately and didn't make her feel uncomfortable. But here they were in a strange part of town and Sherlock seemed unconcerned that sweet Melissa Grady wasn't answering their calls. The only reason they had even left the apartment was her partner, Dr. O'Donnell, had recommended that Layla be examined to see if she could even have a natural birth.

"It is, of course, a fine plan." Sherlock paced back and forth in front of Layla as she sat twiddling her fingers.

"I'm a little nervous." She grimaced slightly up at him as another contraction washed over her. She had handled the pain very well so far and this was no different.

He stopped in front of Layla and crouched down until he was eye level with her. His eyes were greener than she'd ever seen them, teal almost, and shining. They were instantly calming for her. Instead of the steel and cold and shielded pain she had seen for years in those pale blue pools she now saw concern and joy and manic excitement all at once. It was the most impressive collection of emotions he had revealed to her yet and suddenly she felt them all too. The babies were coming, finally she was going to get what she had been yearning after for months, and Sherlock was there and just as eager for it.

"You'll be perfectly alright."

* * *

Sherlock and Layla both regretted their over confidence later. Layla was beginning to wither under the constant rhythm of pain, mounting pain, but she didn't want to confess that it was overwhelming. Sherlock was not so sure about their decision to come to this particular hospital. The room had finally been prepared for them and it was clean and the staff was fine but he absolutely had not been able to contact a doctor and this ward was completely occupied. Apparently every woman in the area was going into labor that night.

He grimaced as Layla crouched over the hospital bed. She had been provided with the hideous hospital gown, but besides that the nursing staff hadn't been in to check on her. They'd been in the room for almost forty minutes. This was a mistake and Layla was suffering for it.

She was panting, breathing in the prescribed rhythm with nostrils flared and jaw clenched so hard the veins were visible in her delicate neck. It made Sherlock angry. This woman, this impossible woman, wasn't allowed to show this much weakness, not now, not when it mattered most that she wasn't weak. He remembered three and a half years before, when the blood was spilling from her leg and pooling around her head, the pain that shot through his stomach and knotted his gut. It had been fear, he hated the feeling and it was overpowering him again now. This time she was conscious. This time he could practically feel the pain shooting through her from the tension in her body. Even though she was physically unscathed, unbloodied, unbroken, he was more worried than he had been after her car accident. This was out of his control. He couldn't staunch her bleeding or administer CPR as before. He couldn't _do_ anything for her, just watch and wait for her to deliver their children. He was powerless. He was afraid. It was disgusting.

"I'm going to try Dr. Grady again." Sherlock stalked out of the room and left Layla intensely confused. Had she done something to upset him? The labor was getting more intense and she may have been betraying the fact that she was in pain, but that was to be expected. Maybe she should ask for an epidural after all? No, she didn't want to admit defeat, well not yet.

A knock at the door interrupted her ponderings.

"Ms. McManis?" Layla frowned at the incorrect salutation but turned around with a congenial smile.

"Yes? That would be me."

"Hi, I'm Beth. I'll be your birth helper today. Would you mind lying down for me, we need to see how far along you are." She was polite and professional but for some reason, perhaps the new level of pain, maybe the possibility that she might have to admit she was wrong and Sherlock was right, either way Layla instantly disliked the woman's shining, happy face.

"Sure." Layla begrudgingly hoisted herself onto the bed and reclined, groaning as the pressure on her back doubled. "But make it quick please, this isn't comfortable."

"Actually, Layla—may I call you Layla?" Layla nodded, now slightly exasperated. "Actually, Layla, it would be best if you remained in bed so we can administer treatment more easily." Layla had read the books Sherlock had given her; she knew what she could and couldn't do in labor. It was never required that she remain lying down.

"I'll pass on that thanks." Layla craned her neck around as the nurse ducked under her gown.

"I really must insist, Layla, that you stay in bed and breathe through the discomfort." Her voice sounded overly chipper, that grin that wasn't friendly, just coercive, was probably stretched across her face.

"Tell me, Beth." Layla could feel her temper boiling over. "Have you ever had a child?" She openly glared down at the nurse.

"No, Ms. McManis." Layla smirked when Beth returned to the less familiar address.

"So, you've never experienced contractions?"

"No, miss. I haven't."

"And you've never felt anything comparable to contractions, have you?" Beth stood from the stool at the foot of the bed and shook her head. The smile had gone from her face.

"No. So you don't really know what kind of _discomfort_ I'm experiencing right now, do you?"

"It is true, I don't know from firsthand experience but I have helped to deliver—"

"Get out." Sherlock was standing quietly, discreetly by the door. His face was calm but there was a dangerous light behind his eyes. Layla wondered how long he had been there.

"Sir, I—"

"She's four centimeters dilated. You are not needed for the time being." Sherlock swept around Beth and helped Layla swing her legs off of the bed.

"Excuse me, sir, but she needs to remain on the bed."

"I'LL DO WHAT I DAMN WELL PLEASE, NOW GET OUT YOU COW!" Layla roared irrationally at Beth as Sherock eased her off the bed. The nurse ran out of the room in a huff and slammed the door.

"Have you perhaps reconsidered your pain management options?" Sherlock firmly pressed the heel of his palm against the small of Layla's back with laughter in his voice.

"Nope. It's uncomfortable but I can manage, especially now." Layla let her forehead rest against the hospital wall and sighed softly. The massage was enormously helpful. It subdued the rage. "That feels fantastic."

"Good. I finally spoke with the practice and it's not good news. Your obstetrician is ill, I'm sorry." He sounded sorry too.

"It's fine, it'll all be fine." Layla was just glad that nurse was gone and Sherlock was there, and massaging her. Maybe he could be her birth coach. "Will you keep that woman away?"

Sherlock chuckled behind her. "And do what?"

"I don't know, you knew how dilated I was, maybe you can tell me when to push." Sherlock increased the pressure of his palm as Layla's back stiffened with the next contraction.

"I will be telling you, but you may want to let the nurse return. She's the one who can administer the pain remedies, if you want them, before O'Donnell gets here."

"O'Donnell?" Layla croaked out the unfamiliar name and ignored the additional reference to an epidural.

"Yes, the other doctor. Don't hold your breath." Layla exhaled violently as the contraction built in intensity. "You're advancing well, just continue breathing."

* * *

Five hours later Layla was pacing the room, still four centimeters dilated and absolutely certain she had made a mistake. She wanted pain relief, that very instant, but was too proud to tell Sherlock.

"Well, this is just dandy." Her humor at least was still intact, but just barely. She had started vomiting from the pain about fifteen minutes before and she was pretty sure that she would pass out soon. Sherlock on the other hand was characteristically still. Layla thought that his calm was almost tangible. He just stood next to her bed and watched Layla pace.

"Oh god, here's another." Layla stopped mid circuit and panted through the contraction. At least they were regular at this point, every two minutes or so she thought.

"One minute thirty seconds." Sherlock's voice startled Layla, it had easily been three hours since she last heard it.

"That's closer… That's good right?" She shuffled over to him and leaned her head heavily against his chest. He was sweating and she could hear his heart pounding. Apparently the statuesque pose he held wasn't because of some detached calm.

"Yes." He laid one hand on the small of her back again and used the other to push the matted, sweat soaked hair from her forehead.

"I think we should check to see how you've progressed." He pressed the nurse-call button and shook his head at Layla's angered face.

"But—you can check!"

"Just to be sure." His voice was soft and quiet but rang through Layla's ears as she pressed her face into his chest. He was worried. That was the only explanation.

"Are you worried, Sherlock?" His body straightened and Layla pulled away to inspect his face. Blue. His eyes were blue again.

"Yes."

Beth, the worst midwife in recorded history, pranced back in and smiled. "Can I help you? Offer you an epidural maybe?" She fluttered her eyelashes at Layla. After she had been rejected for every service by Layla, Beth had become unctuously sweet. Layla was pretty sure the woman was reveling in her pain. This helped her maintain her resolve.

"No, just a status update if you will." Layla sunk onto the bed and leaned back.

"You're at seven centimeters." Beth flounced back out of the room as Layla bucked up in pain.

"I… think… she's… glad… I'm… in… this… much pain." Layla muttered angrily through gritted teeth in between her breathing sets.

Sherlock didn't seem to be paying much attention to Beth. He face was relaxed again. "Seven. Seven is good." Layla knitted her brow as he continued murmuring about 'seven'. _He really was worried._

* * *

"Um… Sherlock?" Layla was kneeling on all fours in the shower stall, hot water cascading down her sides when an unfamiliar pain ripped through her.

"What?" He bolted into the bathroom and squatted beside her, ignoring the water soiling his suit and bouncing into his hair.

"It—it hurts." She gasped and reached out to him. She needed support, comfort, something. It felt like she was tearing from the inside out.

"Christ, your crowning!" Sherlock stumbled away from her and burst out of the room shouting all the way. Layla was transfixed. It was finally happening, almost twenty three hours later it was finally happening. She could hardly process the pain anymore with the sheer mind numbing exhaustion; that was until this had started.

"O'Donnell is on his way!" Sherlock slid back into the bathroom and squatted beside her. "They're going to deliver you here."

"What?" Layla turned her head sharply towards him, she was about to shout at him for his stupidity but his face blindsided her. He was ecstatically excited. Eyes alight and alert again, and his mouth was pulling into an involuntary grin. He looked ridiculous to Layla.

"Stop grinning like an idiot and help me off this floor." He didn't even frown as Layla sunk her fingernails into his nearest forearm. "I'm not giving birth to our children in a shower stall, you moron."

Abuse and misunderstanding ignored, Sherlock helped Layla out of the bathroom, draped a gown over her shoulders and eased her onto the bed. He was just in time too, since Layla began screaming shortly thereafter.

* * *

"Push, Layla. You have to push." Sherlock was there. Layla opened her eyes and there he was. Solid and warm, she could feel him again, clasping her hand. She had been holding onto him for dear life a little bit before. Had she been asleep?

"Push. Push Layla."

"But I'm tired Sherlock." She was ever so tired. But she pushed anyways. Her body finally relaxed, the pressure stopped and Sherlock's fingers flexed around hers.

"Mr. Holmes…" That voice, Layla didn't know it. _Who is that?_ "Mr. Holmes, you have a daughter." A small smack echoed through the room and was quickly followed by a tiny whine.

The whine hurt Layla, she needed to stop it, comfort it. She needed to open her eyes. "Sherlock?" His hand was missing.

"I'm here." He sounded far away.

Layla's eyes finally struggled open. Sherlock was there, at her side, cradling a tiny bundle. The whining had stopped and Layla thought she might have some rest. Some rest at last. Sherlock's face was soothing, still and calm. Layla didn't need to worry anymore, he was calm. He was calm, everything was quiet, she could go to sleep.

"Ms. McManis, it's time for you to push again." There was that voice she didn't know. What did he want? Surely Layla was finished now.

"No, I will hold her." Sherlock's voice rang through the room, agitated, loud, not the quiet croon from before. It made Layla tense.

A quiet mumbling buzzed beside the bed. Layla was too tired to make out what it said. Beth? Was that Beth's voice? Stupid woman, making Sherlock unhappy. Then his hand returned and Sherlock's voice was beside her face again.

"Once more now, Layla. Push."

Layla winced and pushed. The relief was faster this time. Soon a throaty wail filled the air and Layla wilted. Her job was done. She could feel it.

"A son." That voice again. It must be O'Donnell, Layla thought to herself. Then she faded, numb and empty.

* * *

"I want to see them." Layla drifted out of the senseless oblivion she had fallen into but kept her eyes closed. She had never been this tired before.

"They've been moved." Sherlock was quiet, grumpy by the sound of it, and very close. "You fell unconscious almost immediately and the nurses wouldn't let me hold them both."

Layla felt around the bed beside her, searching for his hand. She wanted to touch him, feel his solidness. After hours of delirious pain, she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. There. There he was, his long fingers wrapped around hers making her feel so small.

"Christ, I'm tired." Finally managing to turn her head she smiled weakly at Sherlock. He was blurry, her eyes were having a hard time adjusting but he was there.

"I would expect so, you were in labor for twenty six hours."

"Are you okay?"

"You will be, your pulse is steady and—" His eyes widened just briefly before his face smoothed back out. "Yes, of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't _I_ be?"

"You just sound upset." Layla patted Sherlock's hand with her free hand and settled deeper into her pillow.

"I am upset." Sherlock made to withdraw his hand but stilled it when Layla grew rigid. "Not alarmingly upset." His voice softened. "Not for any reason you should be concerned. The staff here are imbecilic."

Layla chuckled weakly and closed her eyes again. Sherlock was always a constant, it seemed. As long as Sherlock was frustrated with some small minded people Layla could find some normalcy. "So all is as usual." Sherlock snorted at her remark. "Do we have any visitors?"

"No, the nurses are not allowing John inside, or Molly, although they are both doctors. The only reason they let me stay is because I'm genetically related to the twins." Layla peeked out of one sleepy eye. Sherlock seemed to be in a right state.

"What is the problem?"

"You were unconscious for so long they required that you be monitored." Layla jerked her head up in alarm. So much for no reason to be concerned

"There's something wrong with me?"

"There _was_." Sherlock shook his head as Layla struggled to sit upright. "No, don't try to sit up." He glanced quickly at her abdomen and then met her eyes again. Layla stopped trying to move and cringed. Sherlock looked weary and that made her wary. Not only that but her body was screaming that she stop moving.

"There, stay still for now. You're under observation because your blood pressure bottomed out after the second child was born. The first twin was particularly difficult to deliver. The nurses were wrong, they read the ultrasound wrong."

He shook his head and continued, "If they had only been competent enough to read the ultrasound correctly you would have had a caesarean section and avoided this." Sherlock stood from beside the bed and began pacing.

"Oh, how long was I out?"

"Four hours."

"Good lord!" Layla's mouth dropped open in shock. "Four hours?"

"Mmm." He hummed and paced to the window. No wonder he had been agitated.

"And the babies?"

"Fine. Perfectly fine." She could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "They should have brought them to us hours ago but they wanted you to regain consciousness first."

"Was she breech?" Layla tenderly touched the swell of her belly. She felt strangely empty but with nothing to show for it. She wanted her babies.

"Brow first. You were exceptionally determined though." Images flashed through Layla's mind, she had yelled, screamed obscenities at a variety of persons when they had told her to push harder. "They all thought she was bald but it was her forehead."

"Is she actually bald?"

Sherlock giggled, a weird stress-driven chuckle and strode quickly to the door."Why don't you see for yourself?" He held wide the door for the nurses pushing in the two plastic cots, a smile playing around his eyes.

"Here mummy, both your babies, little girl McManis and little boy McManis." The nurse smiled broadly as she positioned the babies next to Layla and elevated the back of her bed.

Layla caught Sherlock frown as he grabbed the chart from the nearest box flipping quietly through the papers.

"No. No, they're not, no." The nurse paused on her way out of the room. "Holmes is their name." Sherlock looked up and then away quickly, the chart suddenly losing its interest for him.

"Do you have first names chosen for them as well?" The chart was gently removed from Sherlock's hand while the nurse clicked open a pen.

"No, just the surname adjustment." Layla clicked her bed remote a few times to get a better view of her babies. "Um, sorry, but can I hold them?"

"Yes, of course you may!" The nurse bustled back to the cots and hovered over each. "Boy or girl first? Daddy, do you want to help." The nurse didn't seem to notice the curl of Sherlock's lip as she reached into the cot to retrieve the pink capped baby.

"I'll do it." He stepped between the nurse and his children.

"Okay, Daddy's got it Ms. McManis. Buzz if you need anything else." Sherlock practically snarled again as 'Daddy' played across the woman's lips but his face quickly lightened as the infant below him began cooing.

"Here, Layla, the girl." If Layla had been looking at any other man she would have labeled the expression on Sherlock's face as blatant adoration. As it was, however, she was looking at Sherlock Holmes and that was not an emotion she had yet catalogued from him. Perhaps something similar but less unbelievable: intrigued excitement? That was something she had witnessed many times while he was obsessing over cases. It still wasn't right though. Not soft enough, his eyes were too warm for that. She would identify it later, for now she wanted to meet her daughter.

"My daughter…" She whispered elatedly as Sherlock softly laid the baby in the crook of her arm. "Our daughter." She looked from the baby's brilliant blue eyes to the matching pair of its father.

"My goodness, she's your spitting image." Sherlock was quiet and continued gazing down at the baby in Layla's arms. It was adoration, it had to be.

"Sherlock, she's—look at her eyes. She's gorgeous, she's you." Layla felt like she was going to start crying soon. She didn't want to but there were too many emotions vying for top spot and the baby in her arms was perfect. Perfect, and certainly not bald. She had thick dark curls, giant almond eyes, and sweet, heart-shaped lips. There was no question of who her father was. Even the quiet expression on her face reminded Layla of Sherlock, like she was taking note of everything before her eyes.

"Not bald." Layla giggled and ran her fingers through the baby's silky soft hair. "She is beautiful, Sherlock, and look at the intelligence in her eyes. She's so alert."

"Flawless." Sherlock smiled briefly, a quick twitch of the lips as he tucked the baby cap back over her hair and then retreated to the other cot. "And now the boy."

"Okay little one, let's meet your brother." Layla collected the girl closer to her right side and made room for the boy in her left arm.

"He's very active" Sherlock was almost beaming as he settled the squirming infant into Layla's other arm.

"God." Layla shouldn't have been surprised but she gasped as she inspected her son. He was as much his father as the little girl. "If I hadn't pushed them out myself, I'd question if they aren't just your little clones."

"They will resemble you eventually." Sherlock inched closer to the bed, eventually leaning on it to stare at the children. He seemed mesmerized by them. "What shall we call them?"

"I have a few ideas." Sherlock hummed when Layla paused. "But I think I'd like to hear your suggestions first."

"Corinna." He was enchanted by the little girl who, to Layla's wonder, was holding his eye with the trademark Holmes intensity.

"Here. Take her. I love it, by the way." Layla moved the boy around and giggled at his wiggling. He certainly was more boisterous than his sister. Quiet, like her, but outwardly energetic. He also had a little dimple in his chin that she didn't, not a feature of Layla's but also not Sherlock's. "Who's given you this little dimple, baby?" Layla fitted the pad of her pinkie finger in the tiny dip and smiled as the infant wrestled one of his hands free.

"My mother, I believe." Sherlock's voice was soft and velvety as he stood back up from collecting the baby and continued staring at his daughter. Layla swore he hadn't blinked since the nurse left. "Mycroft had one- has one as well."

"Let's hope that's all he has in common with his uncle." Layla couldn't help but smile even wider as the newborn clasped onto her finger with unexpected tenacity.

"Mmm. She has more your nose than he." Sherlock sat down on the bed and tipped his arms for Layla to see the girl's little face. Sure enough her nose was slighter and more turned up than her brother's.

"Yep, she'll have my mousy nose, poor thing."

"No, she's perfect, it suits her."

"Corinna, I like it, she's Corinna, but what about him." Layla ran her hand over her daughter's face and then turned back to the boy.

"Corinna. Hello, Corinna." Sherlock murmured softly to the infant and traced her features delicately with one finger.

"I like Creighton."

Sherlock looked up and nodded at Layla. "As do I. Creighton Holmes." The little boy released Layla's finger to grab Sherlock's instead. This earned him a full smile from Sherlock. "Precocious, aren't you, Creighton?"

"I think they're rather fond of you already." It didn't bother Layla in the least, especially when Sherlock's reaction to them was so enthusiastic. "Are you pleased?"

Sherlock finally looked away from the children and at Layla with knitted brow. "Of course, I'm pleased. You performed spectacularly, look at them." His eyes lingered on her face as Layla glanced back at the children. "Thank you."

Layla knew she should respond but she was overwhelmed by emotion and at a loss for words so, leaning around the baby in his arms, she kissed Sherlock firmly on the lips. He didn't reciprocate but he didn't pull away from her either. She was even able lay an additional peck on his bottom lip to seal the kiss. As she leaned back, Sherlock's hand carefully cupped the nape of her neck and steadied her where she was.

"I mean it, thank you." Layla glanced back up into his face and nodded quickly. Sherlock was never one for expressing emotion but the look on his face and his genuine gratitude was the closest thing to 'I love you' that Layla was going to get, and it was good enough. The gentle kiss that followed only made her more certain of this.

"Erm—sorry to interrupt," a familiar voice piped up from the doorway, "but they said we could come back now." John edged into the room and smiled sheepishly. Layla knew Sherlock would be furious for being caught kissing her in sight of John but she didn't care, they were parents.

"Stop apologizing John. Come and see your god children." Sherlock simply stood from the bed and retreated to his chair. No anger. In fact, he didn't act ashamed at all, letting his hand linger on Layla's neck , shoulder, and arm as he slid away from her.

"Layla, well done. Two and practically full-sized." John grinned at Creighton and then tiptoed over to peer at Corinna in Sherlock's arms. "They named yet?"

"Corinna and Creighton." Sherlock almost sounded proud.

"That's lovely. They're lovely. They look like you, Sherlock." John looked back and forth between the twins and then extended his arms happily. "May I?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and then looked at Layla. She was handing Creighton to John without a moment's hesitation.

"Of course you may, his head—"

"Wash your hands first." Sherlock shoved a bottle of liquid antiseptic into John's open arms and then turned to scowl at Layla. She raised her brow and nodded to John who obediently pumped some solution into his hands.

"There, careful with his head." Sherlock sat forward in his seat and watched with an eagle eye as John cradled Creighton.

"Nice to meet you Creighton, you and Chester will get along swimmingly I'm sure." John chuckled as the baby latched on to his finger as well. "He likes fingers, doesn't he?" Layla grinned at John and then realized that he must have been watching her and Sherlock for a while to know that. She caught sight of the recognition crossing over Sherlock's face as well and swallowed a snigger.

"Strong too, isn't he?" Layla swept the blue cap off his head to reveal his curly black hair. "And look at that hair."

"Yep, definitely yours Sherlock." John chuckled and handed the baby back to Layla. "Oh and before I forget, Molly and Mrs. Hudson are waiting out with Mary. We had to bring Chester, so Mary won't be able to come back but I can go and fetch the others if you like." He reached for Corinna who Sherlock grudgingly handed over. "Right after I say hello to you, little Corinna. You certainly are beautiful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's coddling voice and stood to oversee the interaction. He loomed over John's shoulder as the doctor continued cooing at the baby.

"She favors you too, Sherlock, but I think she has a bit of Layla, right... there." He lightly tapped the baby on the nose and winked at Layla. Sherlock did not approve.

"That's enough of that." Corinna was quickly removed from John's arms with Sherlock frowning at his friend's chuckling.

"A bit overprotective, are we?"

"No—" Sherlock was on the brink of a snappish fit when he was distracted by something at the door. He rolled his eyes again and sat back down with the infant in a huff. "—lovely. Yes, come in."

Layla turned and smiled fully expecting to see Molly and Mrs. Hudson but found instead Mycroft.

"Oh. Mycroft." She stuttered in surprise. "Um, uh, yes. Hello, come in."

He did so, strolling in casually and smirking at everyone's general astonishment. "Layla, John, brother dear."

"Mycroft, this is a surprise." John stepped away from the hospital bed allowing Mycroft to move closer and inspect the children.

"Hm. I am an uncle now." His eyes danced quickly over Creighton in Layla's arms and then turned towards Sherlock and his hidden bundle. "I felt I should introduce myself."

Sherlock held Corinna closer to his chest and glared at his brother. "Why?"

Mycroft feigned offense and tutted at Sherlock. "Am I not too allowed familial affection?" His eye gleamed impishly, "I merely wanted to see how my baby brother's children fare." He reached down to peel away the blankets from Corinna's face, completely ignoring the searing glare from Sherlock.

"They're fine." Sherlock spat.

"So I see." Mycroft smiled placidly at his younger brother and then stepped away. "Creighton and Corinna are suiting names." He paced towards the door and simpered at them over his shoulder. "I'd watch out for her though, Layla, she seems just like my brother. He was a perfect terror."

John glanced between Sherlock and Layla sharing a look as the door clicked shut. "That was… weird."

"Not really." Sherlock stood from his chair and peered out into the hallway after his brother. "Mycroft likes to keep tabs on everything, my children are no different."

"Yeah, well…" John cleared his throat and shuffled in place, "good ole Mycroft making everyone uncomfortable."

"We're not uncomfortable, John." Sherlock skirted around John and lightly settled on the bed beside Layla. "But you clearly are." He placed a grazing kiss on Corinna forehead and laid her in Layla's arms.

"No, I—" John watched with a startled grin while Sherlock affectionately adjusted Layla and Corinna then scooped up Creighton. "I'll just go and fetch everyone now." He nodded smartly and marched out the door.

"Very good, John. Thank you." Sherlock finished settling Creighton in the crook of his arm and then glanced at Layla. She looked tired. "Are you feeling up to seeing everyone?"

Layla laid a hand on Sherlock's knee and bent forward to also kiss her daughter, lingering over her head to smell her hair. Traces of Sherlock and the gentlest whiff of something sweeter greeted her. "As long as you stay close by, we should all be fine."

Sherlock paused for an instant, hesitating over the image of mother fondly admiring daughter but pushed aside his habitual impulses, to withdraw, to scoff at such sentiment, and leaned forward. With a hand on Corinna and Creighton in his arms Sherlock gently kissed Layla behind her ear, "Of course. I'll stay right here."

**~~Fin~~**


End file.
